


The Cage and the Key

by starsonfire



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Referenced Minor Character Death, Unresolved Sexual Tension, White House AU, explicit sexual content tw, mild substance abuse tw, self-harm tw, suicidal ideation tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-01-22 12:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 96,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsonfire/pseuds/starsonfire
Summary: “Got it, Miss Griffin.” Bellamy squared his shoulders as she began to open the door.“Oh, and one more thing?” He glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised. “Please just call me Clarke.”Clarke is America's reluctant first daughter, and Bellamy is assigned as her personal secret service guard. At first, he regrets the job -- who wants to babysit a rich, spoiled little brat? But the longer he works at the White House, the more he realizes that there's more to Clarke than it first seemed. As Clarke struggles with the impossible situations her mother, Abby Griffin, has put her in since becoming president, Bellamy finds himself fighting in Clarke's corner, realizing she's becoming more than just a job to him. Will Clarke finally find in Bellamy someone she can count on, or will politics and the trappings of her own mind get in the way?
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 64
Kudos: 430





	1. The Caged Bird

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be 10 chapters long. They have all been written already, and I will be posting a chapter every week or two until it's finished. No need to worry about it staying an eternal WIP! 
> 
> I do ask you to please pay attention to the trigger warnings in the tags. This fic was partially inspired by Clarke's mental state in season 6, which I found to be darker than anyone is really acknowledging on the show. Because of this, I found this fic to grow quite dark as well, especially in the back half of it. If you're sensitive to issues such as body shaming, self-harm, suicidal ideation, substance abuse, or explicit depictions of sex, this fic probably isn't for you. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the journey if you choose to stick with it!

* * *

“Right now she should be in the bowling alley. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Bellamy tried not to visibly scoff at the words “bowling alley”. How much more spoiled could an only child get? He shook his head as he followed the security guard down a narrow flight of stairs. The hollow thunder of a bowling ball rolling down a polished floor reached his ears, followed by the clattering of plastic. Exhaling quickly, he gritted his teeth and pushed through the swinging door.

He’d been told earlier that the last bodyguard had been fired for failing to realize that she had sneaked out. “She’s a problem child if I ever saw one,” the head of the security staff had whispered to him in a tired voice. “No respect for rules, no value of decorum. Headstrong girl.” the woman abruptly stopped speaking, her face pinched as if to stem the flow of disapproval. “Well, anyways, it’s a good thing you’re younger than the last one. Maybe you can keep up with her. But you’ve got your work cut out for you.” Bellamy heard two of the other secret servicemen whispering out a wager behind him: would he last one month, or two? He rolled his eyes. He knew a thing or two about stubborn teenage girls. “I suppose it’s time you meet her and start your work, then.” The woman stepped out into the hallway, motioning for him to follow.

A small, two-lane bowling alley came into view as Bellamy stepped over the creaky threshold. The room was plain, narrow, and overwhelmingly wooden; Bellamy thought it smelled vaguely of a 1960’s smoking parlor -- or at least, what he imagined one would smell like. He glanced over just in time to see a bright blue bowling ball topple over two pins.

“Dammit.”

She was shorter than he’d expected. Bellamy had seen pictures of her in newspapers before and on national television during the inauguration. There, she had seemed like a tall blond statue, standing expressionless and literally in the shadow of her mother, President Griffin. “The Ice Princess,” one article had labeled her.

Here, Bellamy wasn’t so sure he would call her that. At least, not at this very moment.

She stood at the top of the lane, her hands clasped in defeat behind her neck after watching her abysmal effort at taking down the pins. Her blonde hair was unruly, almost scraggly, and completely unstyled. She was wearing ratty gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt so worn and oversized that one side of it had completely fallen down her shoulder. Bellamy’s mouth twisted when he realized she was barefoot. _Who the hell bowls barefoot?_

Bellamy glanced overhead at the screen and also realized that her name was the only one scored. She was bowling alone. As he walked across the floor, he noticed that she was the only one in the room that _wasn’t _a secret service member.

“Clarke?”

the girl didn’t respond as she watched for her bowling ball to pop back up in the ball return. “Clarke,” the security director barked, causing the girl to jump slightly before turning around with sagging shoulders to face the rest of the room. “Come meet your new bodyguard.”

She padded across the room, her bare feet making quiet slapping noises against the polished floor. Crossing her arms, she stopped a few feet in front of Bellamy, her head cocked to one side. Bellamy was briefly reminded of a golden retriever. Unconsciously frowning at himself, he averted his eyes as hers scanned him up and down.

“Clarke,” she introduced herself with a slight jerk of the head.

“I know,” Bellamy answered in an almost weary voice. She raised her eyebrows.

“So, do you have a name, or…?” She asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Bellamy,” he said flatly, nodding at her.

“That’s Mr. Blake,” the security director corrected, her eyes trained on Clarke.

“I really don’t care if she calls-”

“Mr. Blake is appropriate,” the director spoke again, a sharp edge to her already clipped voice. “Well, now that you’ve been introduced, Bellamy, please escort Clarke to her room. It’s almost time for her to join her mother for dinner and she needs to freshen up.” A single, thin eyebrow lifted slightly as she glanced at Clarke’s bare feet.

“But I said I was taking dinner in my room tonight,” Clarke interjected, her mouth twisting down at the corners.

“Your mother insisted you join her this evening.”

Clarke stared at the director for a few seconds in silence. “Right then,” she muttered, her voice wound tight. Her eyes rolled briefly toward the ceiling. Without warning, she elbowed her way through the swinging door.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Bellamy squared his shoulders and followed.

“So they hired someone they thought could keep up with me this time, huh?” Clarke asked him without turning around as she bounded up the narrow stairwell. Bellamy had no desire to respond to this. She led him swiftly down a long, tiled hallway, glistening with marble columns and covered in plush red carpet. Bellamy had seen it all several times before in his training, but he still got distracted by the grandeur of the place. The luxury and excess of it all.

“Hurry up, it’ll still be there tomorrow,” her voice came from several yards ahead of him. He quickened his pace and followed her up a wider, grander staircase than the one leading from the basement. She scampered upward, ignoring the polished handrail. At the top of the stairs, she took a left turn down the long hallway and abruptly turned to the left again.

“This is me,” she told him as she turned to face him, gesturing toward a heavy-looking wooden door. Bellamy looked past her to the elegantly scripted plaque on the door: _The Queen’s Bedroom._ Bellamy attempted to repress the urge to snort and sorely failed. Narrowing her eyes, Clarke sighed impatiently.

“It’s been named that since 1963, you know.” Bellamy nodded at her politely. “Whatever, I didn’t have a choice in rooms anyway.” She fished a key from around her neck and unlocked the door, pushing against the heavy oak. Bellamy made a motion to follow her before remembering it was protocol to remain stationed outside the door. He shuffled awkwardly. Hearing his footsteps, she turned to face him again.

“I’ll be back out in a second. You’re staying out here, remember?” Bellamy scowled. She nodded toward the small, ornate couch outside the door. Before he could reply, the door had clicked shut behind her.

Bellamy sank gingerly onto the couch and immediately discovered that it was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. He sighed, wondering if it was too soon to regret agreeing to this position. This girl acted like the world was at her feet and she was fully aware of that fact, and he wasn’t sure he had the patience to deal with that at such near proximity every damn day. Shaking his head to himself, he brushed his finger along the tassels trimming a silk pillow that matched the couch’s upholstery. _At least the pay was more than good,_ he reminded himself.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Bellamy glanced up abruptly. She hadn’t been in there for more than five minutes_._ Looking at her properly, he understood why: they only thing she’d done was brush her hair back into a braid and shoved some sneakers onto her feet.

“I thought they said…weren’t you supposed to-”

“There’s no good reason for me to get dressed up for this, honestly,” she replied shortly, shrugging her shoulders.

He stared at her for a second or two. “if you say so, Miss Griffin.” She visibly flinched at the formality before striding past him into the main hall. Feeling more and more like a clingy pet, he turned to follow.

Clarke stopped at a giant pair of double doors. Her hand on the brass knob, she checked her watch and turned to look at him once more.

“Come back for me in half an hour. You should go to the kitchens and get something yourself. No later than half an hour though, okay?”

“Got it, Miss Griffin.” He squared his shoulders as she began to open the door.

“Oh, and one more thing?” He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “Please just call me Clarke.”

…

Bellamy returned exactly twenty minutes later, taking up a position by the double doors. From inside, he heard the muffled voice of President Griffin. Strangely, that was the only voice he heard. Either the president was talking to herself, or Clarke wasn’t responding to anything she said.

Bellamy was willing to bet it was the latter.

A silence fell in the room, and a few seconds later the door swung open. “Good night, Clarke,” the president’s voice called from within as Clarke emerged over the threshold.

“Good night,” Clarke replied in a wooden voice, her eyes trained ahead as she headed back down the hall. Bellamy followed quietly. As he looked around, something occurred to him.

“Why weren’t there any tourists here today? I didn’t see any on the public level when we were down there earlier. I thought tons of people came through here every day.”

Clarke twisted her head around, frowning slightly at him. “No one told you during training?” he gave her a blank look. “They quit giving tours about a month or so after my mom took office. Too risky. Too many ‘possibilities.’” She waved a dismissive hand in the air as she spoke. She continued down the hall, but her pace slowed. Bellamy finally fell in stride with her.

“That’s odd that they didn’t mention it to me. I guess it’s nice though, not having to deal with all of that every day.”

Clarke shrugged, crossing one arm over her midsection. “It’s a big house. It should be filled.”

Bellamy was mildly surprised at her answer, but he didn’t say anything else. He’d assumed that she enjoyed having the place practically to herself.

Clarke’s eyes shifted from side to side as she bit her lip. “I’m going to bed,” she announced, backing into her room. “It’s time for the night shifters to take over anyways. See you tomorrow, I guess.” Bellamy nodded as the door clicked shut. Exhaling, he glanced at his watch: 6:54 p.m. He hadn’t expected to have finished his duties this early. It wasn’t even dark out yet, for Christ’s sake. What did she do, just keep herself company for the rest of the night? He speedily turned in his gear and clocked out, eager to get out of the stuffy building.

…

“She’s a brat, O,” he grumbled at his phone, unbuckling his belt and yanking his black shirt out of his waistband. “I’m not sure I should’ve signed up for this.”

“She can’t be _that_ bad, Bell,” Octavia’s grainy voice assured him on speakerphone.

“Easy for you to say, as a fellow brat,” Bellamy teased, reaching into the fridge for the water pitcher.

“Shut up.”

“Never.” Bellamy grinned.

“I can’t believe you actually have to wear a suit to formal events. I haven’t seen you in a suit in over half a decade,” she laughed.

“Hopefully there won’t be many of those,” he sighed, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet.

“I hope there are,” she said smugly. “Seriously, Bell, do you think there’s any way you two will end up friends? You could use more of those.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes, gulping half of the glass down at once. He wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand and sighed again. “O, it’s a job, not a social opportunity. I’m there to do what I was trained to do, not buddy up with the first daughter.” He paced around the kitchen mindlessly. “Besides,” he thought back to her cold behavior with her mother and her bossy voice every time she spoke to him. “I don’t think we’d get along too well anyways, even if the circumstances were different.”

“Well, just play nice, Bell,” Octavia warned him in a resigned voice.

“Will do. Give Lincoln my best when he gets in, will you?”

“Got it, big brother. Talk to ya later.” The line clicked, and Bellamy’s apartment filled with silence once more.

Collapsing onto the couch, Bellamy scrolled through his phone and set four alarms for tomorrow morning. He’d hate to be fired on his second day -- or, at least, hate losing the pay rate.

…

“You know, it’s typical of guards to stand against the wall near the door, not sit at the table with their prisoners,” Clarke said in a dry voice, breaking the stifling silence in the study.

Bellamy shifted in his uncomfortable seat across from her. “I’m not standing over there for three hours straight,” he said dully, not looking up from his phone.

“Whatever, _Agent Blake,_” she muttered with a slight toss of her head as she turned a page in her calculus textbook.

“No need for hostility, _Miss Griffin,_” he retorted, sniffing.

Clarke narrowed her eyes at him, but returned to the problem she was solving. A few minutes of silence passed before anyone spoke again.

“So, too good to go to school like the normal kids?” Bellamy asked sourly, eyeing her stack of textbooks nearby.

Clarke glared at him. “I’m not allowed to, smartass,” she snapped, clenching her teeth. “I have tutors that show up three times a week instead. Trust me, if I had any choice, I’d be in a classroom with everyone else.”

Feeling reproached, Bellamy pursed his lips, wordlessly sinking further back into his chair. He checked his watch.

_He’d only been in there for 37 minutes. _

The two of them sat silently for another half hour, Clarke scratching away at equations with her pencil, Bellamy scrolling through his phone.

Clarke’s pencil suddenly clattered to the table, nearly rolling off before Bellamy caught it. He glanced up, wary.

“I’m starving. You hungry?” He raised his eyebrows. “I guess it doesn’t matter, you have to come anyways,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”

…

The White House kitchen was absolutely cavernous. Shining pots and pans hung over a long marble countertop that was decked out with state-of-the-art kitchenware: whisks, blades, spatulas, and the like all gleamed in the overhead lights. A mouthwatering blend of spices danced in the air, and the sizzling meat that hissed from the griddle was enough to make Bellamy’s stomach growl.

“You’re too good to me,” Clarke said from a barstool, her chin in her hands.

Monty grinned. “You forget, Clarke, tacos are _both_ our favorites. Plus, I haven’t been allowed to cook them at home ever since Harper had that little _incident _at El Rincon a few months back. I don’t think she’ll ever be the same.”

Clarke grinned wryly. “Tell her I call for a rematch on those tequila shots, won’t you?”

Monty shook his head. “Don’t start that. You know sneaking out that night cost a man his job.” Monty glanced over at Bellamy. “Unless you really hate the new guy that much.”

Bellamy stole a glance at Clarke, whose face betrayed nothing.

“I’m Monty, by the way,” Monty added, smiling at Bellamy since he couldn’t shake hands.

“Bellamy.” He nodded in greeting.

“Monty’s the youngest sous chef this place has ever hired,” Clarke informed him without looking his way. Monty set a basket full of tacos down in front of her, and her eyes widened.

“Which probably isn’t a good thing,” she continued after swallowing a mouthful of carne asada. “If he keeps it up, the press is going to start calling me ‘fat’ instead of just ‘curvy.’”

Monty rolled his eyes as he shoved a second basket full of tacos in front of Bellamy. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said dryly to Clarke, waving his spatula in the air derisively.

“Um, thanks,” Bellamy said toward Monty before cautiously taking a bite, then less cautiously taking another, bigger one. Clarke hadn’t been exaggerating at all.

“I would beg you for more, but I have that state dinner my mother insisted I attend coming up tomorrow night, so I guess I should go easy on the tex-mex for now.” Clarke sighed, dusting her hands as she polished off her final bite. “Don’t want to ‘embarrass the family’ with my careless appearance again.” She shot Bellamy a wry look. “That’ll be your first suit event, won’t it?”

Bellamy narrowed his eyes, looking away. Clarke smirked.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll look better in your secret service uniform than I’ll look in whatever the publicists decide I’ll wear.”

Clarke’s phone buzzed, and her head snapped down to read the screen immediately. Bellamy realized that this was the first time he’d heard her phone go off while he’d been around her in the past two days.

Clarke bit back a smile as she returned her phone to her jean pocket. “I’m headed back to my room for a bit.” She directed her gaze to Bellamy. “You can stay here and finish your lunch break, if you want.”

Bellamy shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t work that way.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Nice try.” Bellamy stood up from his seat. “I’m not getting myself fired before my first week on the job is up.”

Clarke gave him a long, exasperated glance. “Fine. Have it your way.” She waved at Monty, twiddling her fingers in the air in a frivolous manner. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Monty. You know I just can’t stay away.”

Monty gave a slight smile and returned her wave with his spatula.

Bellamy lengthened his strides as he tried to catch up with Clarke, who was practically jogging back to her room.

“What’s got you in such a hurry?” He grumbled. He hadn’t seen her this enthusiastic about anything since he’d met her. Not even the tacos.

“Nothing in particular,” she replied breezily, but he could hear the smile in her voice. When they reached her door, she unlocked it quickly and flew inside, calling “see you later!” over her shoulder before the door slammed shut. Bellamy thought he heard a man’s voice laugh on the other side.

_The princess has a secret_, Bellamy thought ruefully, and suddenly found himself hoping that the door blocked out more sound than it looked like it would. He sank into his chair, thinking that tomorrow, he’d bring a book to work to entertain himself.

…

Bellamy had nearly dozed off when the door next to him creaked open. “Hurry back!” he heard Clarke’s voice call, half laughing, as a guy he’d never seen before appeared next to him, carefully closing the door behind him. Bellamy raised an eyebrow.

“You must be the new guy,” the other said, extending a hand to Bellamy. “I’m Finn, Finn Collins. Senator Collins’s son?”

“Okay,” Bellamy said slowly, briefly shaking his hand. Finn leaned down, lowering his voice. “Hey, could you do me a favor and not mention this to anyone? Clarke doesn’t get to keep much to herself, and, you know…”

“Got it,” Bellamy nodded, watching him run a hand through dark hair that was uncharacteristically long for a senator’s son. Bellamy couldn’t help but notice that the guy seemed a little nervous. He gathered that Finn was something President Griffin hadn’t been made aware of.

“Good man,” Finn replied, tapping Bellamy lightly on the arm. “Well in that case, I’ll just-”

“Finn!” a voice rang out from behind them, brimming with excitement. “Finn, you’re back early!” A girl in dark slacks and a button-up ran forward, ripping off her headset as she jumped into his arms. Bellamy recognized her as Raven Reyes, the head of security technology, whom he’d met briefly during training.

Raven Reyes, who was currently planting a kiss on the senator’s son.

Bellamy’s eyes widened briefly before he could compose himself.

Raven ruffled Finn’s hair. “I was just heading over here to bring Agent Blake a new radio! I had no idea you were already here!” She smiled radiantly, leaning forward to give him another kiss.

“Surprise,” Finn repeated feebly after breaking away, glancing skittishly at Bellamy. Bellamy frowned, but said nothing. He didn’t particularly like Clarke, but he didn’t like seeing anyone get two-timed, and Raven seemed nice enough.

As if summoned by the mere thought of her name, the door to Clarke’s room opened, Clarke’s voice emerging before the rest of her did.

“Hey, is it okay if we-” Clarke broke off as she stepped over the threshold, her face freezing as she took in the scene in front of her. Finn was entwined in Raven’s arms, who was gazing up at him affectionately. Finn, looking even more alarmed than before, attempted to pull away from Raven’s grasp, but she wouldn’t allow it.

“Hey, Clarke! I don’t think you’ve met my boyfriend yet, Finn Collins? I can’t remember if the two of you have crossed paths before or not.”

Clarke’s face remained rigid, expressionless. Bellamy’s gaze flitted back and forth between the other three, wary of what would happen next.

Clarke seemed to suddenly shake herself internally, plastering on a smile. “Yeah, we’ve met once or twice,” she said, only a trace of stiffness in her voice.

“Good.” Raven smiled, patting Finn’s chest. “Well, I just came over to give Agent Blake a new radio, so we’d better get going.” Raven fished a small black walkie talkie from her blazer pocket and handed it to Bellamy, who took it wordlessly, still watching Finn and Clarke. “Don’t break this one too, okay? Finn and I have a lot of catching up to do. You two have a good afternoon!” Raven smiled at them again before grabbing Finn’s hand and walking off. Finn glanced back over his shoulder, his pleading expression directed at Clarke, whose own face had gone stony.

“Uh,” Bellamy began, unsure of what to say in a situation like this.

“We’re not talking about this,” she said in a low, bitter voice, turning on her heel and slamming the door shut behind her.

Bellamy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

…

Clarke sat on the floor of her empty suite, unable to move. She felt sick.

_The other woman. The other woman. The other woman._ She couldn’t get the words out of her head.

She’d been so stupid. How could she not have known? Raven worked in the same damn building she lived in.

_Wait. How could Finn have been so stupid? _Clarke wondered. He was the one cheating on an amazing woman in the same damn building she worked in.

Clarke knew it wasn’t her fault, but that didn’t make the invisible fist squeezing at her chest disappear. Finn had been something to look forward to. Now what did she have?

Anger and disappointment.

Clarke pulled out her paint tubes from the bottom dresser drawer.

… 

Some time had passed when Clarke was startled by knuckles rapping at her door. Her paintbrush came to a halt against the wall, the wet, deep blue still shining in the lamplight.

“It’s time for dinner.” Bellamy’s voice sounded tired.

Clarke paused before calling out. “I’m not going. My mother isn’t even home tonight.” She resumed painting.

Clarke heard grumbling from the other side of the door that she couldn’t decipher.

“You can’t just starve.”

Clarke sighed at his persistence. “Why do you care?” She heard no reply. “Fine, I’ll just text Monty to send us something up.”

She dipped her brush back into the paint and continued to work.

About half an hour later, she could hear Monty and Bellamy chatting outside the door, Bellamy’s voice a low, indistinct baritone, Monty’s a lighter tenor. After a moment or two, the second voice faded, and Clarke heard another knock at the door.

“I’m coming in,” Bellamy warned as the doorknob turned. Bellamy stopped dead as the door swung shut behind him.

“What the hell are you doing?” He stood motionless, a pizza box and a two-liter of soda in hand, as he stared at her silk, terracotta-colored wallpaper, which was on its way to being covered in night-sky paint and oversized constellations. “Both of our asses are going to be toast when someone sees that, Griffin!”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “You can’t get in trouble if you weren’t in here to see me start it. Besides, they’ll have plenty of time to repaper this once my mother’s term is up. It’s not a big deal.”

She glanced at him. “Bring that over here, I’m starving.”

Bellamy’s shoulders fell in resignation. He crossed the room and set her dinner down on the speckled canvas drop cloth beside her. As bent down, he noticed that a smudge of navy paint had found its way onto her jawline.

As he rose to walk away, Clarke elbowed his calf. “Hey, you can sit, too, you know. This is for both of us.”

Bellamy hesitated for a moment before crouching down next to her and sitting cross-legged.

“I hope you like pineapple on your pizza,” Clarke said as she set aside her paintbrushes and cracked open the lid of the pizza box.

Bellamy grimaced. “Are you serious? That’s a crime against the culinary arts.” He frowned as he picked up a slice for himself. “You’re lucky I’m too hungry to care.”

“I’ll let you pick next time, if you’re nice,” She assured him, taking a swig of Dr. Pepper straight from the plastic bottle and passing it over to him. “But no black olives. Never. Understood?”

Bellamy shrugged and took the bottle from her, suddenly very aware of the lack of formality in the situation. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he gestured to the half-painted wall. “Someone’s going to be furious about that.”

Clarke waved a hand dismissively before licking pizza sauce off of her thumb. “They’ll get over it. It’ll look better when I’m finished with it. Besides, I’m the one that’s stuck in here 24/7.”

Bellamy grudgingly conceded that she had a fair point as he polished off his slice of pizza, tossing the crust back into a corner of the box.

“You don’t eat the crust?” Clarke said in a derisive tone, her pale eyebrows climbing up her forehead. “What are you, twelve?”

Bellamy shook his head. “There is no inherent value in pizza crust unless it’s stuffed with cheese or dipped in ranch dressing. Everyone knows this.”

Clarke opened her mouth to argue when there was a heavy thump against the door.

Bellamy’s hand immediately flew to the gun at his hip on instinct, standing up so fast there was a rush to his head.

“Jesus,” Clarke muttered as she watched how quickly he went for his weapon.

“Clarke!” Finn’s voice was muffled by the heavy wood of the door. “Clarke, we need to talk, just let me in, okay?”

Bellamy’s hand fell away from his gun as Clarke’s fists clenched. He glanced at her questioningly.

“I’ve got this,” she answered, wiping her hands against her thighs as she rose next to him. Bellamy noticed her shoulders square up as she reached for the door. She’d only opened it a few inches when Finn poked his head around the corner.

“Listen, it’s not what you think!” He said, his face a mixture of fear and supplication.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what I think. What else could it possibly be?” Bellamy was taken aback at the stern tone of her voice, one that he hadn’t heard before.

“I-I thought that Raven and I were going to end up taking a break, and-”

“Don’t try to justify yourself, Finn. It just sounds pathetic at this point.” Clarke crossed her arms with finality.

“Listen, you know I care about you, Clarke. I think - I think I might even-” Finn tried to push further into the room.

“Don’t you dare,” Clarke said, her voice deadly. “Don’t you even think about it.” She paused, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as her head bowed.

“You knew how I felt, Finn.” Bellamy went still when he heard the crack in her voice. “You knew how I felt, and you didn’t once stop to think of the consequences.” Finn was silent.

“I didn’t deserve this.” Clarke shook her head, her voice beginning to sound a bit watery. “_Raven _didn’t deserve this.” She turned half her body away from him. “You should go, Finn.”

Finn tried once more to push himself into the room. “Clarke, just hear me out, alright? We can work through this-”

“Finn, go.”

“Just listen, okay? This doesn’t have to end here! We can just-”

“I think it’s time for you to leave.” Both Finn and Clarke glanced back at Bellamy, who’d come to stand behind Clarke at the door. Finn looked as though he’d only just now realized there was someone else in the room.

Finn shook himself and trained his glance back down to Clarke. “Just hear me out, will you? There’s no need to be upset about this if we can just-”

“Leave.” Bellamy and Clarke were both shocked to hear their voices in unison. Finn stopped, his eyes bouncing back and forth from one face to the other. Shaking his head, he reached down to straighten his rumpled shirt.

“Fine, then. I can see this won’t be going anywhere.” He took a step back from the threshold.

“But Clarke,” he said, his eyes boring into her expressionless ones. “Don’t forget what I said before. I meant it.” He turned slowly on his heel, glancing back several times as he walked away.

Clarke slowly nudged the door closed with her toe and turned around. She was surprised to find her nose almost colliding with Bellamy’s chin. He hurriedly stepped back.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Stuff like this is my job, _princess,_” he answered, carefully keeping his face neutral.

After a moment, she gave a half nod, then stepped away from him to gather their abandoned dinner.

Her eyes snapped back to him. “Come on,” she said, nodding toward the door.

“What?”

“We’re going to a place where I can eat my pineapple pizza in peace.”

…

“I have a feeling this isn’t allowed,” Bellamy said as Clarke spread a blanket out on the brickwork next to a solar panel. The sun had already set, and a gentle breeze blew at their backs.

“I never ask permission first, it ruins everything fun.” Clarke sank down onto the roof and snatched another slice of pizza from the box.

“I’m so getting reprimanded for this,” Bellamy grumbled. Clarke patted the blanket next to her.

“Sit down, the pizza’s getting cold.”

Exasperated, Bellamy gave in and sat down beside her, reaching for another slice of now-lukewarm pizza.

“In case you were wondering, we’re still not talking about what just happened,” Clarke said around a mouthful of ham and pineapple.

“Didn’t ask,” Bellamy said calmly, reaching for the soda.

“Good. Don’t.”

They were silent for a moment before Bellamy spoke again. “He seems like a dick, though.”

“Your opinions aren’t part of the job description, Agent Blake.”

Bellamy held up his hands. “Are you always this pleasant?”

“It’s been a long day.”

Bellamy smirked. “Ah yes, a long day of sitting in the lap of luxury, being waited on hand and foot, practically being considered American royalty.”

Clarke’s eyes bored into his. “Do you think this is fun for me? Do you think it’s easy, being stuck in here all the time, never being able to leave without days of planning and a security detail? Do you think it’s a good time to never be able to see my friends, or even make any outside of this goddamn house? Do you?”

Bellamy, taken aback at the seriousness of her answer, said nothing. Clenching and unclenching his jaw, he racked his brain for a way to diffuse the tension.

“Did you, uh, did you know you’ve got paint on your face?” Bellamy pointed to the corresponding part of his own jawline. “Here.”

Clarke’s eyes widened. “This whole time? Are you kidding me?” Her hand flew to touch the left side of her face. “I was sitting there arguing with Finn and that whole time, I had paint on my face like a kindergartener, and _you didn’t tell me?”_ She threw up her hands. “Then what are you even here for?” She scrubbed at her face with her fingernails.

“A little to the left,” Bellamy offered helpfully.

“This better not stain,” she groaned. “The state dinner is tomorrow night and I can’t show up with a blue face.” She paused. “One second thought, if I have a blue face, maybe I won’t have to go.” She stopped scraping at her cheek.

“Trust me, I’m not looking forward to it any more than you are.”

They sat in silence for a moment, finishing off the last of their food.

Bellamy turned to Clarke. “We’d better go, unless you want me to have to radio in our position.”

“Fine,” she conceded, grabbing the empty box. Bellamy, feeling slightly guilty about what he’d said earlier, offered a hand to help her up.

She ignored it.


	2. The Caged Bird Sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke loses her temper, Bellamy begins to understand, and an outing goes horribly wrong.

* * *

Clarke stared at herself in the full-length mirror on her now sky-painted bedroom wall. She smoothed the black taffeta fabric down against her hips, hating it. After the Canadian state dinner two months ago, the tabloids had called her “frumpy” and “out of shape” in her blue patterned gown of choice. After seeing the press, the White House publicists collectively decided that Clarke’s wardrobe should be chosen for her when it came to public events. No amount of grumbling on Clarke’s part could change anyone’s minds, and so here she was, standing in a slimming, nondescript, black floor-length gown, her usually wavy hair straightened and carefully pinned up.

She nearly yawned just looking at her dull reflection.

As she put her plain pearl earrings in, she wondered who’d she be seated with. Probably someone that wouldn’t lead to trouble. Her mother’s administration had desperately been trying to keep the fact that the first daughter’s political views were much farther left than the president’s own policies.

She heard a thump at the door. “We’ve got five minutes,” Bellamy’s voice warned through the heavy wood.

Clarke finished securing her other earring and strode to the door, low-slung heels in hand. She yanked on the doorknob and stepped halfway out into the hall.

“Ready,” she piped up. Bellamy turned, startled, and glanced over her briefly, a frown pulling at his lips.

“Uh, you look…”

“Drab? I know. I don’t get to pick out what I wear to these things after all the tabloids last time,” she finished.

“Tabloids?”

“Oh, right, I guess you’re probably not the type that reads those. They basically all just said that I’m too big to be a first daughter.”

Bellamy’s frown deepened.

“Hold on, let me put these shoes on and we can go.” Clarke reached out and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself as she slipped one heel on, then the other. With an inch or two of added height, Clarke was almost at eye level with Bellamy, and before she stepped away, she noticed that he had way more freckles than she’d thought. She was reminded briefly of the freshly painted constellations on her wall before pushing the thought away.

“I’m so not ready for this,” Clarke muttered, straightening up to walk beside Bellamy.

“Haven’t you done this before?” Bellamy asked, adjusting the cuff of his dark suit.

“Yes, but the Canadians are our allies,” Clarke said matter-of-factly. “Last time was uneventful. This is the first Russian state dinner since 1994.”

Bellamy glanced at her sideways as they walked.

“This is one of my mother’s attempts at compromise, or whatever it is she’s always on about in her stump speeches.”

“And you’re not a fan of compromise?”

“Not with a man who treats the LGBT community the way he insists upon doing. I’m not going to stand around and smile over hors d’oeuvres at someone like that.” Clarke’s jaw clenched.

“Listen, I agree with you, okay? Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll try to make your job tonight as boring as I can.” They stepped into the uplit room, already lively with the chatter of diplomats and public figures waiting to be directed to their seats.

“Take me straight to my seat, okay?” Clarke waited until Bellamy nodded before walking further into the room.

Bellamy spoke quietly into the chip positioned inside his collar. “I’m gonna need Sparrow’s location on the seating chart.”

“Table 7, to the right of the chandelier,” someone answered into his earpiece.

Bellamy scouted the area. “You’re not sitting with President Griffin,” he noted, mild surprise in his low voice.

“She and I both agree that’s for the best,” Clarke answered as Bellamy directed her to the proper table.

“Oh my god.” Clarke came to a sudden halt by the round table.

“What?” Bellamy, already alert, tensed, performing a quick visual sweep of the room.

“They’ve placed me next to one of the Russian cabinet members.” Clarke let out a deep sigh. “Let’s hope for everyone’s sake he doesn’t talk much.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “I’ll be back here.” She nodded, not looking up, and he took a few paces forward, turning to position himself against the wall.

…

Clarke swallowed her sparkling spring water quietly, listening to the disingenuous small talk the politicians exchanged around the table with disdain. She looked wistfully at the table the celebrities had been placed at, thinking that the conversation would’ve been much more entertaining if she’d been seated next to Beyoncé and Jay-Z.

She glanced over to the long head table where her mother was seated, watching her smile politely and nod at whatever the Russian president was saying.

Clarke suddenly wished that her father was here. She wished that he’d been around to be inducted as the first-ever “first man”, to stand next to her at her mother’s inaugural address instead of leaving her standing alone in the freezing January wind.

To sit in this room with her now and shoot her knowing looks as her mother fake-smiled at foreign diplomats.

But everyone knows the risk of being a foreign war correspondent, and Jake Griffin paid the ultimate price.

“Miss Griffin?”

Clarke snapped out of her reverie. “Pardon me?” she asked, glancing around to see who spoke.

“Miss Griffin, I was asking about that parade of young people beyond the front lawn yesterday. What is it that your country calls it again?” A pale man with thinning hair stared at her relentlessly, his eyes shrewd.

“A pride parade,” Clarke answered, remembering the sight of the colorful flags and laughing people that had gathered near the lawn yesterday, visible through her bedroom window. She’d known there wasn’t any use in even asking permission to go, but she couldn’t help watching from afar, wondering if Niylah had joined in.

“Ah yes, a pride parade.” The cabinet member nodded, smiling slightly. “In my country, we do not take pride in such displays.”

Clarke stilled, her fork pausing in mid-air.

“Is that so?” She asked, steel flecking her voice. She thought she noticed Bellamy shift in the corner of her eye.

“But of course, Miss Griffin. Some do, but I personally do not stand for it. I want to keep my country one of integrity.”

Clarke’s stare did not flinch away from the cabinet member. She vaguely realized that the rest of the table had gone silent.

“Oh, yeah?” She finally replied, her hands clenching the arms of her chair. “Well, tell that to me and my ex-girlfriend, you bigot.” Clarke pushed back her chair, standing up and throwing her napkin down on the table. She felt the room gradually fall quiet around her as she stormed toward the door, knowing her mother’s eyes were the ones boring the hardest into her retreating back.

As she pushed through the double doors, she suddenly became aware of Bellamy on her heels. As they rounded the corner and set out into the empty hall, she felt a gentle, but firm hand close around her elbow.

“Hey,” he said quietly, sniffing. It wasn’t a sniff of disapproval or of sickness, it was just a sniff. Clarke realized she’d seen him do it a few times before. _It must just be a Bellamy thing,_ she pondered.

“You okay?” He asked, glancing at the tense set of her shoulders.

She looked up at him, a faint tiredness in her eyes. “Fine,” she muttered. “I hate things like this.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” he said, shifting his weight to his other foot. “If you were trying to stay out of the news this time, something tells me that wasn’t the way to go.” He ran a hand down his face wearily. “So what now?”

Clarke studied him for a moment. She’d already taken one risk tonight. Why not another?

“Do you-” she leaned in a bit, eyeing the two security guards standing past them by the doors. “Do you think you could get me out of here? I want to see a friend.”

Bellamy frowned at her. “Are you serious? This place is-”

“Please?” Bellamy’s voice died when he noticed the look on her face. He hadn’t heard sincerity in her voice like that before. He was suddenly acutely aware that this was a lonely seventeen year old girl he was talking to, and not just a job to complete.

His expression softened. “Listen. You know the security has been tripled around here tonight because of the dinner. Especially given the guests of honor. There’s just no way we could pull it off. Not tonight.”

Clarke’s face fell, her shoulders drooping. “But...maybe another night?” She asked, her face still down.

Bellamy’s jaw clenched. “You really want to get me fired too, huh?” He asked dryly.

Clarke shook her head, still looking down. “It’s not that.”

Bellamy stopped, waiting for her to look up. She didn’t. He sighed. “Fine. I’ll think about it.” Her head snapped up, the inner corners of her eyebrows rising in hopeful surprise.

“Just not tonight, okay? It would be a suicide mission for both of us.”

She nodded. “You’re right.” She rubbed tiredly at the smudges of mascara that were beginning to fall under her eyes. “I’ll hold you to that ‘maybe’, though.”

She stooped to take off her shoes. “These cut blisters like hell,” she explained, slowly turning to go.

“The sparrow is headed to the nest,” Bellamy said quietly into his collar.

“All clear,” two voices in his earpiece replied.

“That code is so cheesy,” Clarke said, rolling her eyes.

“I didn’t choose it,” Bellamy replied, holding up his hands defensively as they walked.

Clarke reached out to snag a bottle of champagne from a server walking past them, who shot her a dirty look, but said nothing.

“Party time,” she said sarcastically, shaking the bottle lightly in his direction.

“Seriously, how am I not fired yet?” Bellamy complained as they turned to go up the stairs.

…

Clarke sat down on her bedroom floor cross-legged, still wearing her evening gown. She reached under her bed and pulled out a corkscrew. Bellamy raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, taking off his suit jacket and sitting down across from her. Clarke popped off the cork and took a deep drink.

“Much better,” she said, wiping her mouth against the back of her hand. She grimaced. “Actually, not really. This tastes terrible.” She shrugged and took another drink regardless.

Clarke held the bottle out to him.

“You know I can’t drink on the job,” Bellamy said reproachfully.

“Suit yourself,” Clarke shrugged and took another swig from the bottle, grimacing as she swallowed.

“Champagne really isn’t my thing, either,” Bellamy noted with a smirk.

“So. Did you enjoy your first show?” Clarke asked, her cheeks beginning to flush.

“Of course not. I hate wearing suits.”

“Mom’s gonna have a stroke if what I said gets out in the media.”

“You mean, what you said…that’s not common knowledge?”

Clarke looked away. “Not really. My mother felt that she had to run a slightly more conservative platform if she was going to have a chance at being the first female commander-in-chief, so her campaign team advised me not to bring it up.”

Bellamy watched her fingers tracing circles in the rug. “Does your mom not agree with it?” He asked quietly.

“It doesn’t bother her,” Clarke answered easily. “It just doesn’t fit her current ‘political image’ is all.”

Bellamy looked at her until she met his eyes. “It’s no big deal,” she said, her tone light. “Sounds like the cat is out of the bag now, anyways.” Clarke smiled wryly.

Bellamy studied her, watching the faraway look return to her eyes, a touch of sadness in it.

“So,” he said, clapping his hands together, distracting her from her thoughts. “What was this ex-girlfriend like? Was she as annoying as you are?”

Clarke grinned at him and set the champagne bottle aside. “Not even close. We only dated a few months, but Niylah was one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet. She didn’t talk as much as me, but that was fine, because…” Clarke launched into a story about the way they met, gesturing in a more animated way than she might have if there were no champagne in the mix.

Bellamy half-smiled.

…

“How’s Clarke taking the latest White House scandal?” Octavia called from Bellamy’s kitchen, yanking open his fridge and scanning the shelves for a worthy snack.

“Pretty well I guess, for a seventeen-year-old first daughter under a conservative administration who’s just been outed on a national scale.” Bellamy checked his watch. He’d hoped the pizza would be here by now.

“Sucks,” Octavia offered, reaching for an apple from the crisper. “The segment on _Entertainment Tonight_ last night didn’t paint her in the best light.”

“O, you still watch that trash?” Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Please don’t tell me I’m going to end up spending my night off listening to celebrity gossip.” He sat up and looked at her from over the back of the couch. “What did it say about her?”

“It didn’t exactly make her look good. Some press that was invited leaked photos of her getting up and stomping out. I think your elbow might’ve even made one of the shots.”

Bellamy frowned. Clarke had settled into a grim quietness over the past few days since the incident. He was willing to bet that she’d read everything on the internet about the debacle.

“To be fair, the guy that started it was astoundingly insensitive.”

“You’re sticking up for her?” Octavia bit a chunk out of her apple. “I thought you said she was a brat.”

Bellamy paused a moment before answering. “I mean, she is, kinda. But I think she’s just really frustrated at the position she’s been put in. Wouldn’t you be?”

Octavia snorted. “Are you kidding? If one of our parents ended up in the White House, I’d run away and change my name before I got anywhere near that place.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “And it is pretty terrible to be outed like that, no matter who you are.”

A sharp knock on the door startled them both. “Finally,” Octavia groaned, running to pay the delivery guy.

A few minutes later, Bellamy tore into a slice, grateful that there was no pineapple in sight.

…

“It’s not like you to lose your temper like that, Clarke.” President Griffin crossed her arms, her face serious.

“Forgive me for being a little on edge. You have to remember I’m not used to being cooped up 24/7 around people I don’t like.” There was a glacial quality to Clarke’s voice.

“I know it’s been tough since I was elected, Clarke, but you knew how important keeping the peace was at that dinner. Couldn’t you have just gone along with it for one night?”

“I wasn’t the one being a dick,” Clarke retorted, crossing her arms to match her mother’s stance.

“A certain degree of diplomacy is expected from us, nevertheless.”

“You forget that I’m not the one that signed up to be here.”

President Griffin’s brows furrowed. “Clarke, we’ve talked about this. I know this situation is difficult, but when it comes to these things, I’m just trying to do what’s best for you. I believe that keeping you out of the press will make you happier in the long run-”

“Happy? Since when have you cared about my feelings in all of this?” Clarke bit out angrily, her cheeks turning red.

The president looked taken aback. “Honey, I-”

“Save it. We’re done here.” Clarke’s arms fell to her sides, her fists clenched, as she barged back out of the oval office. She stopped next to Bellamy, who had been waiting outside the door.

He averted his eyes when she glanced at him.

“You heard everything, didn’t you.”

He said nothing.

“Lovely. Just _fantastic._” Clarke smiled sardonically at the rest of the security guards standing around the door. “I hope you all appreciated today’s episode of ‘airing the dirty laundry.’” Her fingers motioned twice, making air quotes.

“Hey,” Bellamy said quietly. Surprised at the gentle quality his deep, rumbling voice, she paused, actually taking the time to look him in the eye. He held her gaze, and she felt her expression soften.   
“Why don’t you try to forget about this for now, okay? Arguing out here where anyone passing by can hear you won’t do you any good.”

She lifted a hand to her forehead, suddenly looking much older than she really was. “I know,” she said, her voice thin. “Well then. What do you propose I do instead?”

The corner of Bellamy’s mouth quirked up. “Get your ass kicked at bowling?”

“Oh, it is _so _on.”

…

“So what’s this I hear about you actually going out next week?” Bellamy grumbled after losing a second game to Clarke, who turned out to be quite the sore winner.

“It’s an indoor festival. I begged my mom to let me go months ago. I’m pretty sure she only agreed to it to shut me up.” Clarke’s arms bent backward as she spoke, trying to re-braid some hair that straggled loose during the last game.

Bellamy slumped a little. “How much am I going to hate it?”

“You’ll only hate it if you hate fun!” Clarke grinned at him cheekily. Bellamy lifted an eyebrow. “I’m serious,” Clarke retorted. “Who wouldn’t enjoy listening to indie bands while taking advantage of an open bar and exorbitantly priced gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches?”

“But you can’t take advantage of an open bar for another four years, _princess._”

“Not with that attitude, _Blake._” Clarke rolled her eyes and began tugging her sneakers back on.

Bellamy tried to disapprove, but he couldn’t really bring himself to do it. She’d been so glum lately that he couldn’t find it in himself to begrudge her something to look forward to.

“Besides, you’re old enough to drink,” she said, smirking. “Who says I can’t just “accidentally” drink whatever you have?”

“Because I can’t drink on the job…”

Clarke frowned. “That makes it slightly more difficult, you’re right.” She shrugged. “I’ll figure something out somehow.”

Bellamy held the door open for her as they entered the stairwell. She threw a conspiratorial glance over her shoulder as she passed him.

“I’m going to have a nice night for once, dammit. Nothing’s going to stop me.”

…

They pulled up to the venue in an armored vehicle. Clarke leaped down to the sidewalk, tugging her black jeans a little higher up her waist as Bellamy rounded the back of the SUV to stand beside her. He was wearing street clothes for once in an attempt to deflect attention from them, and Clarke’s eyes couldn’t help but linger on the worn navy bomber jacket he wore. It made him look so much more at ease than he usually did, and standing next to him like that almost made her feel normal too.

Bellamy eyed the huge line of people leading up to the front entrance. “This better be worth it,” he sighed.

“It’s gonna be good,” Clarke said, feeling a grin steal across her cheeks. She hadn’t left the house in what felt like ages, and happiness was welling like a bubbling fountain in her chest.

“Come on,” she said, nodding toward the back door as she waved off the driver.

“I’ll be back at the scheduled time,” the driver said to Bellamy, nodding once before Bellamy pushed the door shut, and drove off.

Clarke almost skipped up to the security officer stationed at the back door. Bellamy ambled up behind her, flashing some badges at the man, who nodded them through and elbowed the door open to let them pass.

“Try not to draw too much attention to yourself, okay?” Bellamy reiterated for what felt like the millionth time.

Clarke huffed. “I got it, Blake. You’re newer to this than I am, remember?”

“That may be true, but from what I’ve seen so far, you’re not very good at sticking to plans.”

Clarke shot him a glare. He held her gaze unrepentantly.

“...Whatever. Let’s go. I don’t want to miss this band.” Clarke turned and pushed through a set of double doors and into the main hall.The room was dimly lit and glowing with blue and purple spotlights, casting strange shadows as a crowd slowly began to filter in from the opposite side of the room. Clarke bit back a tiny bit of disappointment as she made her way to the back of the venue; they’d decided beforehand that the back would be the safest place for her to watch. Bellamy lengthened his strides, appearing beside her.

“I can’t believe you haven’t heard these guys before,” Clarke whined, elbowing his side a little harder than she meant to.

“I don’t exactly have a ton of free time. Besides, why waste time on hipster shit when you can listen to some grunge classics? Can’t beat Cobain.”

“So closed-minded,” Clarke chastised, shaking her rumpled blonde head. “You’ll like them, I promise.”

Clarke shuffled across the back wall for a bit before finally coming to a halt. “Here’s good,” she told him, her voice raised slightly as the din of the crowd flowing in around them began to pick up.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” she said, smiling, her face gleefully tilting up to his for a moment and laughing at his grumpy expression.

…

_“And the walls kept tumbling down _

_in the city that we love, _

_great clouds roll over the hills_

_bringing darkness from above,”_

Clarke threw her arms out, mimicking a drum solo, her hair flying around her head like a whirlwind.

“_But if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing’s changed at all_?” Clarke belted along with the lead singer, her voice slightly flat but certainly not lacking in enthusiasm. Bellamy almost smiled at the sound of it - so much imperfection, but still so much joy.

He grudgingly admitted to himself that Clarke was right - he did like the band - but he wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction. Even so, there was something beautiful and soothing about the lead’s voice, with poetic lyrics often bordering on mythology. Bellamy couldn’t help but appreciate them.

With a few more chants, the song came to a close, and the band broke for a beat backstage to get ready for the second set.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Clarke shouted at Bellamy over the din of the shuffling crowd around them. “Come with me?”

“I mean, I have to,” Bellamy replied, the corner of his mouth quirking ever so slightly. Clarke shot him a dry look and elbowed him forward, ushering them toward a booth in the dimly-lit concourse outside that was selling beverages.

“One Shirley Temple with extra cherries, please,” Clarke told the cashier once they got to the front of the line. She would’ve preferred it spiked, but she noticed the employees diligently asking for I.D. from almost every single person who had ordered in front of her.

“Shirley Temple? What, are you twelve?” Bellamy leaned forward, crossing his arms and smiling a mocking smile at her.

“They are fruity and delicious! And just for that comment, I’m not letting you have any!” Clarke handed over a few bills, took her drink, and immediately slurped a giant swig from her straw, glaring Bellamy down the entire time.

“Ah. So good,” she chimed, smacking her lips and taking another deep gulp. “So what do you think so far?” She asked him, shifting her weight from one black-booted foot to the other.

“I think you’re pretty lucky that you got the okay to come to this with only me along with you,” Bellamy answered quietly, surveying the throngs of people weaving in and out of the concourse. “This is a goddamn zoo.”

“I meant the _band_.”

“Oh, right. They’re not bad I guess. I do wish they’d incorporated more mythology into the song about Icarus, though. There’s so much rich language to play with within the legend, and they didn’t take advantage of that much at all.” Bellamy reached for her cup, but Clarke shook her head, pulling it back from him and taking another sip.

“That would’ve made the song so clunky, though! What did you want them to sing instead? ‘Look at those big fake wings, the heat will make the wax melt, and Daedalus will cry?’ that sounds awful.”

“Well, not when you put it like-”

“Come on, the 20-minute break is almost up,” Clarke cut him off, wandering back toward her station at the back of the venue. “They haven’t played my favorite song yet. If they don’t, I’ll start a riot.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you at all,” Bellamy replied, stepping closer to her as people behind them pushed by.

The lights began to dim again, washing the room in blues and greens and shadows, and phone cameras began to flash as the band walked back onto the stage.

“Let’s pick it up with another quick one, shall we?” The lead asked the crowd as he adjusted the microphone stand, smiling as the audience cheered and hollered back. The drummer clicked off four times with his sticks, and the band launched into a peppy groove, the lead singer’s falsetto gliding over the punctuation of the bass guitar.

Bellamy looked over at Clarke. She knew the words to this one, too, her mostly on-key voice joining in between the last few sips of her bright red drink.

At first, he’d been surprised that no one seemed to recognize her. She’d been on camera for the inauguration, and apparently graced the tabloids with her “scandals” many a time. Bellamy had constantly been on edge when they arrived, waiting for someone to gape and rush up to them.

But then again -- Clarke at the inauguration had been groomed and polished to her mother’s liking, solemn and only hovering in the background. And the photos in the magazines -- many of them were old, grainy, or unflattering.

Bellamy glanced over at her again in her skinny jeans, deep red henley, and black leather jacket, her hair unstyled and an unrestrained grin on her lips.

This Clarke looked nothing like the White House version of herself.

Bellamy halted that train of thought as the song ended, and the band quickly adjusted the tuning of their instruments. The lead singer stepped behind a keyboard, pushing out a quick chord before pulling the mic back down to suit his new seated position.

“_When you fall asleep…_”

A sudden gasp issued forth from the space next to him, and Bellamy jumped has Clarke frantically batted at his arm.

“They’re playing the song!” She yelped, a hand flying to her mouth as she did a small hop in place.

“_With your head upon my shoulder,”_

This song was a slower one, and Bellamy was a little surprised that Clarke preferred it over the others. He leaned down next to her to say as much, but stopped when he noticed a tear trickling in the thin line down her cheek, disappearing into the fingers still clutched to her mouth.

She didn’t sing along to this one.

As the band reached the first chorus, weaving a melancholy harmony, Bellamy began to understand. It was beautiful. It sounded like a bad dream -- but not a nightmare; more of a reverie in slow motion where you knew you were losing something that mattered and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

The song crescendoed, the layers of harmony and sound looping increasing as the band strung out the final chorus.

“_You always take it farther_

_Than I ever can.”_

A strangely dissonant electronic outro followed, the crowd relatively quiet for once as the final notes rang out.

Next to him, Clarke’s head was tilted down as she swayed slightly from side to side. Her hand had moved to cover her forehead, and her shoulders drooped.

“Clarke,” Bellamy murmured, his voice soft as he placed a warm hand to her shoulder.

A few moments passed before she looked up at him, her eyes strangely glazed.

“Something’s wrong,” she croaked, nearly tipping into him as she lost her footing.

“What?” Bellamy managed to get out as his hands flew out to steady her. His heart rate spiked as he wrapped an arm around her leather-clad back for support.

“Keep me upright,” she said in a slightly strangled voice. “Don’t let anyone see something’s wrong.” Her weight grew heavier as she leaned harder into him, her head rolling to the side a bit.

“Clarke, we have to get help, are you insane?” A whine of panic grew steadily stronger in Bellamy’s chest as he held her tightly to him.

Clarke lolled her face upward with visible effort, her clouded eyes pleading with him.   
“They won’t let me back out, Bellamy. This will be the end of it.” Her consonants had begun to grow fuzzy around the edges.

Bellamy gave her a hard look. She was fading fast, and he knew he had to do _something._

“Please,” she almost whispered, her voice thick and plaintive. Her eyes began to well even as they drooped heavily, and the look on her face tugged at something in Bellamy that he’d rather not have felt. Grimacing, he hoisted her into a more upright position, scanning for the nearest secluded exit.

“If you don’t want to raise the alarm, you’re going to have to try and walk. Can you do that?” His grip tightened around her waist.

“I think so,” she slurred, trying to hold her head back up. Her now-empty cup fell out of her loosened grip, and Bellamy would’ve just left it if something stuck to the bottom of it hadn’t caught his eye.

With some difficulty, he quickly bent down and swiped it up while still trying to support Clarke. A poker chip had been glued to the bottom of the cup, red to match the color. A short, custom inscription had been engraved in the center of it:

_DOWN WITH THE GRIFFINS._

His hair stood up on the back of his neck as he quickly stuffed the cup into his jacket pocket and guided Clarke to the double doors behind them.

The whine of panic was deafening now, ringing in his ears as he scanned the hall for a place to hide.

“Bellamy,” a soft voice issued from his shoulder. She sounded scared for the first time since he’d met her -- and she’d called him by his first name. This wasn’t good.

Bellamy tried to shake the sound of his name on her tongue as he glanced around him, happy that the concourse was crowded enough for no one to really notice Clarke’s state of semi-consciousness.

“I know,” he said under his breath to her, his thumb stroking her side where he held her up. “I’m working on it.”

He spotted a door several yards down next to the VIP box entrances marked “Coat Closet” and made a split second decision, guiding Clarke - now nearly dead weight - along the wall toward it. He yanked the door open, relieved that it was empty both of coats and of people, and pulled the two of them inside, yanking the light cord hanging from the ceiling as he shut the door behind them.

“Clarke, I think your drink was drugged somehow,” Bellamy muttered as he carefully lowered her to the carpeted, dusty floor, her limbs heavy and her breathing sluggish.

“No...kidding…” she mumbled, her words barely intelligible, her eyes closed.

“Clarke, I need you to look at me, okay? Can you do that?” He leaned over her, now crouched at her side, and placed a hand around her jaw, tilting her head up.

She groaned a little. “Room spins.” A small frown tugged at her lips as her neck lolled to one side.

“I think we need to tell someone about this, okay? If this is what I think it is, it’ll wear off in a few hours and you’ll be fine, but someone needs to know what’s going on.”

She shook her head feebly, her eyes still closed.

“Clarke, there’s very likely someone still in this building that’s _trying to hurt you_,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Promise.” her voice was so soft, Bellamy wasn’t even sure he really heard it. “Don’t tell.”

Bellamy almost growled in frustration.

He didn’t want to take her freedom from her - not after how he’d seen what life as first daughter did to her. Born with a silver spoon or not, it wasn’t a life any 17-year-old deserved.

But he also didn’t want to let her stay here and get abducted, or worse. He had no idea what they were up against right now, and there was no immediate backup on hand.

“Clarke, I really don’t think…” he trailed off when he noticed her eyes completely closed, her head slumped back against the wall. “Dammit,” he whispered, pushing himself the short distance backward to lean against the opposite wall once he was sure she was still breathing.

Bellamy knew from his extensive training that a drug like this would wear off in a few hours. He also knew that they weren’t expected to be picked up for several more hours. They had time for her to wake up, but Bellamy still felt uneasy, being without help and blind to who had orchestrated this.

He pulled the cup back out of his jacket and read the poker chip again, just to make sure he hadn’t dreamed it.

His mouth thinning into a line, he put it back into his pocket and instead reached around his other side, pulling his hidden pistol from its holster and clutching it in one hand as he sighed, leaned back, and waited for Clarke to wake up.

…

Clarke was suddenly aware that her mouth was a desert as an agonizing headache throbbed violently against her temples. Dazed and annoyed, she opened her eyes, only to immediately shut them again to block out the piercing light issuing from the single bulb above. She sluggishly tried to rifle through her brain for an explanation for how she ended up here, but everything was a blank after the memory of swaying to the last slow song.

_Oblivion._

A groan escaped her parched lips.

“Clarke,” Bellamy murmured, starting forward toward her. “Finally.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” Clarke croaked, grimacing, her eyes still screwed shut.

“Sorry,” he whispered. His eyes flickered to the door. “Do you think you can walk? We’re going to have to leave soon if you don’t want anyone to expect anything.”

“Give me a minute.” Clarke pressed a palm against her forehead. “Do you have any water?”

“I can get you some. Hold on one second, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” He rose quickly to his feet, despite his stiff limbs. He’d been sitting there for three hours, barely moving.

“Will you tell me what happened when you come back?” Clarke asked softly to his back.

“Yeah.”

Clarke nodded slightly in acknowledgement, leaning her head back against the wall once more.

Bellamy quickly opened the door and slipped out, and Clarke winced at the sound of it shutting next to her.

Alone now, Clarke tried to push back against the fear threatening to swallow her whole. The giant blank stretch in her memory was horrifying. What had happened to her? How many hours had passed? Did her mom find out something was amiss? Panic began to rise in her chest, pressing against her lungs. She gulped a big breath of stale air as her heart rate threaded erratically. She opened her eyes, letting the pain of the light hitting her pupils distract her from the fear.

She jumped as the door popped open once again and Bellamy snaked his way back into the little room.

“Sorry,” he apologized, bending down and handing her a bottle full of vaguely chilled water. He settled back across from her again, watching her warily as she twisted open the lid and inhaled half of the bottle’s contents in one swig.

“You okay?” He asked, his brows puckering in concern.

“Tell me what happened.”

Bellamy sighed and shoved a hand into his pocket, fishing around for something a little bulky before tugging it out and handing the cup to her.

“Look at the bottom,” he instructed grimly.

_DOWN WITH THE GRIFFINS._

Clarke’s blood ran cold. Her eyes widened as she lifted her gaze back to his face, finding no reassurance there.

He was scared too.

“Obviously someone drugged the drink,” Bellamy stated flatly, clasping his hands in front of him over his bent knees. “I just don’t know what the intention was. Maybe they just meant to scare you, or warn you, but for all I know, they meant to abduct you or something, and I got in the way.”

Clarke looked dubiously down at the water bottle in her hand. Bellamy noticed, and shook his head.

“Don’t worry, I got it out of a vending machine, emptied it, rinsed it in a water fountain, and filled it back up. It’s not contaminated.”

“How long was I out?” Clarke shifted the bottle anxiously from one hand to the other.

“About 3 hours. If you can walk, I’m calling the car soon so we can get the hell out of here.”

Clarke nodded slowly, wincing as she stretched out one of her folded legs.

“Clarke,” Bellamy began, his voice heavy with what he was about to say.

“I know what you’re going to say, and _no._” Clarke’s voice steeled as she looked back at him with a dark expression.

“Clarke, this is a matter of national security!” Bellamy exclaimed incredulously. “That poker chip doesn’t say ‘Clarke,’ it says ‘Griffins.’ If you don’t care about what happens to you, then fine, but it’s _my _job to care about what happens to you, and clearly this is about your mom too.”

“You know if people find out I’ll basically be under house arrest! I can’t live with that. It’ll kill me.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Bellamy said, peeved, folding his arms.

‘I’m serious. I can’t live like that.”

“If we don’t tell someone about this, you _and _President Griffin might not live at all!” Bellamy growled back.

“That’s what all of this goddamned security is for,” she retorted, tossing a hand in the air.

“We’re not telling anyone,” she reiterated, her voice steel.

“Yeah, well, I don’t answer to you.”

“Look at me, I’m fine now. We’ll just be careful from now on, and it’s not like I’ll have that much opportunity to go out and get drugged again anyways.” Clarke’s voice was more confident than she felt on this, but she was determined not to compromise. She couldn’t let herself be totally entombed on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Bellamy looked down at her trembling fists and frowned. He understood where she was coming from, he really did. He didn’t want to see her locked up more so than she already was.

But he also didn’t want to see anything happen to Clarke or the commander in chief herself, just because he knew something and didn’t bother to speak up.

The look on Clarke’s face from earlier as she clung to consciousness, helplessly aware that something was wrong and blindingly afraid of the consequences, flashed unbidden before his eyes.

Fucking _hell._

“From now on, if something seems off, even in the slightest, you do what I say, got it?” He said in a surly voice, and Clarke’s shoulders sagged in relief at his surrender. “This goes for any plans in _or _out of the house, at any time, anywhere, no matter how important it might be to you.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he mimicked.

They stared at each other stonily for a few beats.

“I’m sending for the car,” he said, rising to his feet and pulling out his White House-issued smartphone.

Grimacing, Clarke wobbled slightly as she rose to her feet as well. The coat closet was big for a closet, but still not big at all, and she stood very close to him.

With a curt nod, he turned and reached for the doorknob, ready to return both of them to the quiet safety of the White House.

Suddenly, he felt a warm grip close around his other hand, pressing his palm gently.

“Thank you,” Clarke said softly when he turned to look back. Her eyes were solemn, her voice more earnest than he’d ever heard it.

Blinking down at her, the corner of his mouth twisted a bit, and he nodded in silent acknowledgement before pushing the door open and leading them back into the hall.


	3. The Birthday Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Bellamy gets a day off, Clarke gets some good news, and a birthday is celebrated.

* * *

“How did the fundraiser night on the square go last week?” Clarke asked Wells Jaha over video chat as she sat scribbling on a notepad at her desk across from her bed. “Do you think the Charity Ball will push us to our goal, or do you think that we need to organize some more fundraisers before that?” She tapped the cap of her pen lightly on the pad of paper.

“It went even better than I expected, actually,” Wells answered, his serious expression masking what Clarke knew was happiness and pride underneath his cool exterior. “If the New Year’s Charity Ball goes as planned, I think we’ll even surpass the goal this year.”

“That’s amazing news!” Clarke exclaimed to the grainy image of her best friend through the webcam. “You’re still planning on coming to it, right? I feel like I haven’t seen you in person in what feels like forever.”

“Well, it doesn’t help when you live in D.C. and I live in New York, you know.”

“You mean because I live in the White House,” Clarke corrected grimly.

“I mean, that _really _doesn’t help, yeah. But of course I’ll be there. My dad’s planning on donating, even.”

“That makes one of our parents,” Clarke remarked with a bitter edge in her voice. She shook her head briefly and summoned up a smile once more. “Please tell Senator Jaha thank you for me, though. It really does mean a lot.”

“You can thank him yourself at the event. I know he’ll be happy to see you again, too.”

Abby Griffin and Thelonius Jaha had worked together frequently when they were both still senators, and after meeting one year at “bring your child to work” day on Capitol Hill, Clarke and Wells had been best friends ever since. When Clarke decided what she wanted her charity work to be as first daughter, Wells was the first person she had called. She trusted him more than anyone to help, and she knew he’d have the sense and resources to keep her work going if she ever found herself unable to do so.

“Clarke, I better go, I’m supposed to chat with someone right after this about invitations for the charity event. I’ve got the list of names you sent to me right here, but let me know if you think of anyone else ASAP, okay?”

“Aye aye, captain,” Clarke said with a small smile, saluting her friend before he waved and exited the video chat.

“So,” Bellamy’s voice issued from the cushy armchair near the french windows. “What _is_ your charity for, anyways?” His booted feet were propped against a coffee table as he looked up from a ragged paperback.

“Why do you care?” Clarke asked, turning around in her carved wooden desk chair and folding her arms over its back.

“Because I, too, care about the betterment of humanity,” Bellamy said in an airy voice, clutching a hand hyperbolically to his uniformed chest. “Seriously, though, what is it? A fund for fighting discrimination against pumpkin spice latte drinkers?”

Clarke scowled, straightening up in her chair.

“Actually,” she retorted, her voice acerbic, “My organization is PATTH. People Against Trans Teen Homelessness. We raise money to provide emergency funding and resources to trans kids who’ve been disowned or kicked out by their families.”

Bellamy was silent for a moment, chastised, before his eyes returned to his book. “Your mother must really love that.”

“Of course she hates it. But I’m not doing it for spite, I’m doing it because it matters.”

Bellamy nodded, no longer wishing to mock her.

“Serious question though,” he spoke up again, steepling his fingers as his book fell to his lap. “If you hate these formal events so much, then why did you choose a ball as your fundraiser?”

Relaxing a little bit, Clarke reached back to adjust her haphazardly-tied ponytail as she answered. “It’s not really about what I want with that. A lot of these kids can barely afford food, much less to go to their high school dances. So we’re inviting them to be half of the guest list and providing them all with a formal outfit. It’s a rite of passage. Every kid deserves to dance and to feel beautiful.” Clarke looked down as she finished her sentence, avoiding Bellamy’s eyes.

“Not bad for a princess,” he said finally, his face hidden behind his book once again.

…

Bellamy hardly knew what to do with his afternoon off. He was so used to his time not being his own that he’d nearly forgotten how do things that he liked to do. He flipped aimlessly through the channels on his TV, waiting until it was time to meet Octavia and Lincoln for dinner. He’d been reluctant to let his little sister move in with her boyfriend a few months back given how young she is, but Bellamy knew that Lincoln was a good man, and if he was honest with himself, probably more trustworthy than he was. Lincoln had a much more stable job with regular hours, and that wasn’t something Bellamy could promise to his little sister ever since taking the secret service position. He knew there would be long hours and sometimes days where he wouldn’t come home at all, and Octavia didn’t deserve to be left here alone in his tiny apartment all the time.

The sky gradually darkened, and as it drew close to seven o’clock, Bellamy shrugged on his jacket and locked the door, heading for the nearest metro station. Washington was currently experiencing full-blown fall, and the nights were getting crisper and chillier. He shoved his fists into his pockets as he stood on the platform, waiting for the train that would take him to Octavia’s favorite bar and grill.

“Right on time, as always,” Octavia grinned as her brother slid onto the barstool across from Lincoln and herself. “I already ordered some nachos to share.”

“By share, you mean you eat most of them while Lincoln and I have to battle you for scraps?” Bellamy smirked at her and shared an exasperated look with Lincoln.

“How’ve you been, Lincoln? I hope Octavia hasn’t been terrorizing you too much.”

“Other than snoring, she’s mostly been fine,” Lincoln said with a friendly nod, barely even flinching when Octavia sharply elbowed his side. “So how’s the new gig? Sounds like a bit of a handful.”

“Cue the ‘I have plenty of experience dealing with little brats’ spiel again,” Octavia jumped in, her eyes rolling as she reached for a loaded chip from the platter that had just arrived to their table.

Bellamy scoffed as Octavia swatted his hand away from a particularly cheesy chip she’d clearly been eyeing.

“Uh, it’s not that bad, if we’re being honest,” he answered Lincoln. “The hours are long and it can get a bit boring, but she’s not the total nightmare I’d been expecting, at least. She is pretty independent, though. Clashes with her mom a lot.”

“It must suck, being a president’s kid,” Lincoln replied thoughtfully, sneaking a chip while Octavia scrolled through her phone. “Imagine not even being able to go to a bookstore or meet with friends without a security detail.”

“She doesn’t even get to go out that much in general. The security is pretty strict, given the aggressive opposition President Griffin received during and after her campaign.” Bellamy’s chest tightened as he thought of the poker chip from the concert -- something that he and Clarke hadn’t discussed again since that night.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried something at some point,” Octavia said matter-of-factly, still shoveling chips into her mouth. “So many people can’t stand the idea of the nation’s leader having a vagina.”

“You’d better hope not,” Bellamy frowned. “Remember who’s standing between the Griffins and a bullet, O.”

“Of course I remember, Bellamy, and I pray to god that doesn’t happen.” Octavia finally gave up the mostly-empty plate and gestured toward the boys, indicating that they were finally allowed to have some. “I’m just saying that controversy in politics is a breeding ground for violent dissent, that’s all.” Octavia took a long sip of her soda and swallowed. “Anyways, it sounds like you actually like Clarke Griffin now, despite your grumbling.”

The corner of Bellamy’s mouth twisted down. “I...I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘like’. She can be a pain in the ass, but I can definitely respect the way she stands her ground and insists on being herself. And she’s taken on the charity work that’s usually expected of the president’s spouse, but made it strictly her own instead of something that fits in easily with the Griffin administration.”

“Really? What does she do?” Lincoln leaned over, genuinely curious.

Bellamy explained what he understood of PATTH and described the event the Clarke and her friend Wells would be putting on soon.

Octavia whistled. “Whew boy, I bet that makes her mother squirm.”

Bellamy shrugged. “Probably. Anyways, enough about my job. O, how are your welding classes going?”

“Obviously, I’m better at it than everyone else in the class, but the instructor just refuses to admit it,” she groaned, launching into a rant that made Lincoln smile and Bellamy shake his head.

…

“So,” President Griffin began, glancing over the table at her daughter. “I have some news.”

Clarke said nothing as she salted her mashed potatoes, but nodded in indication that her mother should continue.

“I have to go to London in a few weeks for an immigration summit.”

“Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” Clarke responded dully, pushing wilted asparagus around on her plate.

“Clarke,” Abby continued, her voice tired.

“What?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me. As a birthday gift. Eighteen is a big one, you know.” Abby smiled hesitantly.

“Oh.” Clarke was silent for a moment, carefully keeping her expression neutral as not to betray the leap of excitement in her chest. She finished chewing and swallowed politely. “That could be nice.”

Abby’s smile deepened. “Then it’s settled. You’ll have to keep your bodyguard with you the whole time you’re exploring of course, but that’s not too bad of a price to pay if you can explore the city, surely.”

Clarke’s lips twisted thoughtfully. “I don’t have to make any public appearances, do I?”

“Not this time. Adding you in was a last minute idea of mine for your birthday, so you’re free to spend the trip however you wish. Ah, within reason of course,” Clarke’s mother quickly amended. “No nudist protests or clubbing or anything like that. Too much negative attention.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Got it, mom. I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not, Clarke, but you are willful. And sometimes spiteful, it seems.”

Clarke ignored this. She drained her crystal-cut water glass and set it down with a clink.

“Um, thanks for the trip then,” Clarke said quietly, not meeting her mom’s eye. “I’m gonna head back for the night though.”

Abby’s smile faded a little. She’d been hoping that the lightened mood would’ve led her daughter to stay and chat for a little longer than usual tonight. “All right, honey. Sleep well.”

Clarke nodded and rose from the table, Bellamy’s substitute for the night - Hector - at her heels.

If Clarke was being honest with herself, she’d almost forgotten that her birthday was next week. It wasn’t something she counted on her mother to remember now that she was in office, and she didn’t really have any friends to celebrate with either. That, and her days all ran together sometimes to the point that she wasn’t really sure of the date anymore. Her mother had genuinely surprised her, and she was too excited to try and act nonchalantly about it. Clarke thought briefly of the history books she’d seen Bellamy reading while she did her school studies. She knew he’d be just as excited to hear about the trip as she secretly had been. She grinned at the thought of telling him when he came back in tomorrow.

…

“Listen, I know I’m probably not supposed to have sweets, but it’s my eighteenth birthday, so could you maybe whip something up for me? Monty, please? I’ve been craving cheesecake _so_ bad lately.”

Bellamy entered the kitchens to find Clarke trailing Monty around in a chunky, oversized sweater and gray sweatpants, her hands clasped comically in dramatic entreaty. Every step Monty took across the kitchen, Clarke followed, looking like a tousled, more curvaceous shadow of the chef. Bellamy was suddenly struck by how incredibly lonely it must be to be the only other family member of the president living in the White House -- especially as a seventeen-year-old girl. So lonely that she followed staff around in the kitchens during her free time. Bellamy liked to joke by calling her princess, but she really was locked away alone in a tower of sorts.

Monty looked at her over his shoulder as he was dicing some onions for his mise en place. “I’m pretty sure I could whip something up. What’s your favorite?”

“If you say plain, we’re gonna have some problems,” Bellamy interjected, and Clarke’s head snapped up. She hadn’t seen him come in. She smiled.

“While I do think that plain cheesecake can be an art form if made to perfection, no. It’s not my favorite.”

“What’s it gonna be then?” Monty asked. “Oreo? Key lime? Salted caramel? I made Harper a peanut butter chocolate one a while back that she really liked.”

Clarke clasped her hands together again. “White chocolate and raspberry? Pretty please?”

Monty tilted his head in acquiescence. “Subtle and refined. I can do that.”

“Brilliant,” Clarke gushed, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re my hero, Monty.”

“Anything for my favorite first daughter,” he answered cheerfully, waving a spatula carelessly in the air.

“So, how was your night off?” Clarke asked as they walked shoulder-to-shoulder away from the kitchens and toward the library. Clarke had taken to doing her schoolwork in there by the fireplace as the days had grown cooler.

“Peaceful.”

Clarke smirked ruefully. “Well, you better not get used to it. My mom told me some news last night, and I think even you won’t be able to feign indifference about it.”

Bellamy’s brows drew together, and he gestured at her to go on.

Clarke nudged his shoulder playfully with her own. “Guess where we’re going in two weeks?”

Bellamy looked at her askance, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Disney World? So the princess can at last reach her final form?”

Clarke scowled. “No, you grouch. _We’re going to the immigration summit in London with my mom._”

Bellamy lurched suddenly, halting in his steps. “We’re going to England?”

Clarke nodded, beaming.

“Are you sure? Both of us?”

“I can’t go if you don’t go, obviously,” Clarke answered, tossing her palms upward.

“Wow,” Bellamy managed to say after a few moments of silence. He shook himself and started walking the route to the library again. He’d never traveled out of the country for vacation before. Not that this was a vacation, but still.

“Aren’t you excited?” Clarke asked, hurrying a few paces to catch up with him.

Bellamy looked sideways at her, his smile genuine for once. “You know what? Yeah, I actually am. Even if it is just tailing you all over the city.”

“Good, because I’ve already been thinking about it, and I definitely want to go see-” her voice cut off suddenly after Bellamy opened the library doors for them.

A group of senators milled around the library, likely a caucus waiting to meet with President Griffin. In the center of the room, Bellamy recognized Senator Collins, who was accompanied most unfortunately by his son Finn, who seemed to be taking notes for his father.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Clarke said flatly from beside him.

“We should go,” Bellamy said in a low voice, remembering what had happened the last time he saw the two of them together. Finn didn’t seem to handle taking “no” for an answer particularly well.

“Agreed,” Clarke muttered, quickly pivoting on her heel and walking with angry haste toward the stairwell. “Bastard,” Bellamy heard her grumble as he hurried to follow.

“Clarke!” they both heard a voice call from close behind them. Clearly, he’d somehow thought it was a good idea to follow them out of the room.

“Keep going,” Clarke ordered, not turning around. A floor separated them from her suite, and she hurried up the second flight of stairs.

“Clarke,” they heard again, accompanied by the sound of dress shoes hitting marble tiles. “Clarke, I just want to talk!”

Clarke stopped so suddenly on the stairwell that Bellamy nearly stumbled into her. She turned abruptly and looked down, her gaze absolutely frigid on Finn, who was standing at the foot of the stairs below.

“Agent Blake,” she said, her voice injected with a deadly calm. “Will you please use your radio to see to it that we aren’t bothered by Mr. Collins here anymore?”

Even Bellamy felt the chill in the air between them. He gazed up into Clarke’s face; it seemed to him suddenly carved of stone.

Bellamy realized then that it wasn’t just President Griffin who had a knack for authority in the family.

Turning his eyes back to Finn, he drew his walkie-talkie from his belt and pressed the button.

“Can someone near the entrance hall stairs please escort Senator Collins’s son back to the library and make sure that he stays there?” Bellamy’s gaze didn’t waver until someone radioed back with an affirmative, and when he turned back around, Clarke was already marching toward the top of the stairwell again. Bellamy took the stairs two at a time to catch up with her.

He thought he heard a sniffle as they reached the second-floor sitting hall outside of Clarke’s bedroom.

“Clarke,” Bellamy said softly, and she stood still, her back to him as she faced the morning light streaming in through the massive fan window that was part of the east wing.

“It just really fucking sucks,” she finally said a few moments later, her voice thick. “I liked him a lot and I feel so stupid and he can go out and do whatever he wants and I’m just stuck. I’m stuck in here without anything to do or anyone to distract me. And it just feels really shitty. And it’s stupid that I’m even telling you this.”

Bellamy watched the slope of her shoulders sink with defeat, her head bowed as she still kept her back to him. He knew Clarke didn’t exactly have a normal - or even good - life here, but he didn’t realize how much misery she’d been holding back, and hearing her voice so watery and tired after hearing it cold and commanding just moments ago caused a surprising twinge in his chest.

“I’m sorr-”

“I don’t want your pity,” she interrupted. She finally turned to face him, and her expression was hard despite the shining teardrop tracks down the sides of her red cheeks. “I don’t want to think about it or talk about it.”

“Okay.” Bellamy nodded, waiting for her to speak again. His mouth twisted down; he felt vaguely anxious about the whole thing. Octavia wasn’t really one to express her feelings a lot around him growing up other than annoyance, and he didn’t have a ton of experience with this sort of thing.

But he’d still wanted to try.

Clarke bit her lip, her hand grasping absently at the cuff of her sweater sleeve. She clearly didn’t really know what to do either.

Bellamy took a deep breath. “Hey.” She raised her eyes reluctantly from the floor back to his face. “Why don’t we go to your sitting room and have some tea brought up, and you can tell me about what we’re doing in London?”

Clarke’s sad eyes brightened infinitesimally at that, and she nodded, heading for the door.

“So do I get a say in anything that we see there at all?” He asked in a long-suffering voice, trying to lighten the mood.

“Maybe, if you play nice,” Clarke answered, though the playfulness in her tone was half-forced.

…

Five days later, Clarke awoke to a bundle of balloons being dragged to the vanity across from her bed. They bounced off each other cheerfully, anchored together by a shiny plastic bell-shaped weight.

“Happy birthday, Miss Griffin! Your mother had these sent up to you. She says that she’s in Florida today meeting with officials about forest preservation, but that she’ll try to make it home tonight.” A staff member placed a floral card upright by the balloons, smiled, and exited the way she came.

Clarke let her eyes fall shut again as she dropped her head back to her pillow. She hadn’t expected her mom to celebrate with her anyways. She knew not much was going to happen today in general. Yes, she was eighteen now. But it was also just another day.

She let herself drift back to sleep.

…

“Good morning, birthday princess!” A teasing voice woke her up again a little while later. Clarke grudgingly opened one eye only to see Bellamy towering over her bed, placing a paper Burger King crown on her tousled head.

“You’re insufferable,” she mumbled, her voice muffled against the pillow.

She slowly sat up, dwarfed by the size of the massive canopy bed that occupied the room.

“What time is it?” She asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Late,” he answered. “Are you still doing school today, or taking the day off?”

“Still doing it,” she answered, lifting a hand to adjust the paper crown on her head. “Got to have something to pass the time with, right?”

“If you say so,” he allowed, half-smiling. “First, get up. I’ve got a surprise for you in the sitting room.”

Clarke looked skeptical. “You got me something?”

Bellamy sighed. “You’ll see. Come on.”

Clarke followed him across the plush carpet of the room, yawning as she went. Bellamy opened the door with a full smile this time, and Clarke froze on the threshold as she saw what was on the other side.

“Wells!”

Wells grinned broadly as Clarke ran to hug him, lifting herself up on tiptoes to throw her arms around his neck. He ran a hand comfortingly back and forth between her shoulder blades.

“I had no idea! How’d you get away?” Clarke stepped back, beaming.

“I managed to get the day off. It was Bellamy’s idea, actually. He had some staff call up and ask if it was possible for me to come down today.”

Clarke’s gaze snapped to Bellamy, her eyes soft, if a little surprised. She nodded at him gratefully, her hands twisting together in front of her.

Bellamy quickly tried to shrug it off. “Hey, it makes my job easier if there’s someone else here to take your whining and snarking.” His voice was light, but his eyes were unreadable.

“This is great,” she said finally, swaying with delight. “Finally, someone who’s _actual _competition at bowling.”

…

“Wells, you go first. That way I can see what I’m up against.” Wells shook his head with a smirk, scanning the rack for his favorite bowling ball.

Clarke looked back at Monty, who they’d just finagled out of the kitchen for an hour or three. “Thanks so much for the cheesecake, Monty. I’m actually going to have a slice right now. I’m fucking famished.”

“Cheesecake for breakfast,” Monty announced with a chuckle. “Wait,” he said, holding out a hand as Clarke circled the platter with a knife. “You can’t cut it before you blow out the candles.”

Monty fished out a “1” and and “8” candle from his pocket and swiftly pushed them into the top layer of the raspberry swirls. Pulling a small lighter from his other pocket, he flicked a flame out with his thumb and lit up the candles. Instead of a regular flame, they began to crackle and sparkle cheerfully.

Clarke brought her hands to her cheeks, biting back a smile. “Hold on, let me make a wish really quick,” she said, her eyes falling shut in concentration.

Bellamy looked at her standing there in her pajamas, her hair messy and cheeks flushed, the sparkling light of the candles washing her face in a golden glow.

She looked happy.

Bellamy tore his eyes away finally, forcing his gaze to the floor. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Hurry up, princess, I like my desserts without candle wax all over them.”

Clarke finally opened her eyes and leaned forward, extinguishing the candles with a mighty puff.

The small party in the room cheered, and Clarke finally brought the knife to the cake, cutting herself a large slice.

…

“I can’t believe that out of _all _the movies in the world to watch in here, you chose _this_,” Monty groaned as the film’s title card came into focus on the screen of the small theater inside the White House. It sat nearly fifty, but only Clarke, Wells, Monty, and Bellamy were there, seated side by side three rows back from the screen.

“_Titanic_ is a fucking cinematic masterpiece and you know it. Besides, it’s my birthday, I can do what I want.” Clarke huffed and reached across Wells, flapping her hand in indication that Monty should pass the bottle of rum he’d snuck in with them.

“She’s not wrong, you know,” Wells spoke up, shoving some popcorn into his mouth straight from a microwaved bag. “The dialogue may be cheesy, sure, but the amount of research that went into the movie alone is pretty astounding. Such scope!”

“What about you then, Bellamy? What’s your verdict?” Clarke took a pull from the bottle of rum, wincing slightly.

“Um, I’ve never actually seen it,” Bellamy answered, his eyes glued to the grainy historical footage featured at the beginning of the film.

Clarke mock-gasped. “Well you, my friend, are in for the rarest of treats.”

As the movie went on, the rum gradually disappeared. After a while, Clarke seemed to lose track of the fact that the nearly empty bottle was her fault, and not the fault of everyone else who still had to get home tonight.

“If they say each other’s names one more time, I am going to _scream,_” Monty groaned, fishing around the bottom of the popcorn bag for one last popped kernel.

“Shut _up_,” Clarke replied, her words heading toward slurred. “It’s beautiful. The music is beautiful, the story is beautiful, Kate and Leo are beautiful. _It’s all beautiful._” She dropped the empty bottle under her velvet-upholstered seat.

“Did you know they built a set of the ship almost to scale for this movie? That’s some dedication,” Bellamy admitted, scrolling through the trivia section of the movie’s IMdB page on his phone.

“Yes, in fact, I already did know that,” Clarke said, swinging her head in his direction. “This is my favorite movie and I love it so much.” She dragged out the last word too long to be counted as sober anymore.

Bellamy gave her a withering look, shaking his head as he turned his eyes back to the oversized screen.

The boat had already begun the long process of sinking when Clarke started flapping her arms, motioning for everyone’s commentary to stop.

“Everyone shush, this is the best fucking part!” Clarke was riveted, even in her inebriated state.

The music began to swell as the distress sparklers on screen lit up the sky above, and Rose jumped off the lifeboat and back onto the doomed ship, running through the decks toward Jack.

Bellamy turned to Clarke, about to comment on the use of the bagpipes in this part of the score, when he saw her eyes shining with tears, her cheeks glazed and wet.

“They’ll never fucking let go,” Clarke said, flinging a palm toward the screen and then bringing it back to cover her heart.

Bellamy chuckled a bit.

“_Don’t. Laugh,” _Clarke growled. “You’re going to ruin the best part! They are. _Soulmates,_” she said emphatically.

“I don’t think I believe in that. Too many people on this earth. Too many types of relationships,” Monty spoke up, his voice casual.

“I think they exist, I just think there’s a lot of different types of them. Best friends, family relationships, romantic ones, it could be anything,” Wells jumped in with a shrug.

“What about you, Bellamy? What do you believe?”

Bellamy turned to look at Clarke for a moment, noting her glassy eyes and lazy grin. He pressed his lips together for a moment, his expression closed, before answering, “I’ll believe in them when I see it. But as for now, no, I don’t really agree or believe in it as a concept in general.”

Clarke sighed. “Bor-_ing,_ all of you.” She turned her attention back to the movie, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

Bellamy’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before his eyes returned to the screen as well.

…

“God, that was so nice,” Clarke observed cheerfully, still drunk as Bellamy walked her back up to her room after she’d clumsily said her goodbyes. “It made me feel like a human being again.”

“You are a human being, Clarke,” Bellamy said dryly. “Unless you’re hiding some scales under your clothes that I don’t know about.”

Clarke stuck her tongue out at him. “I meant like...a real person. That’s like...normal and has friends and a life,” she clarified, her words running together a little bit. “Though my mom didn’t show up like she said she would, not that I was even expecting her. What’s a birthday to a president, anyways?” Clarke rambled, fumbling in her shirt for the key to her bedroom.

“I’m sure she would’ve been here if it had been possible for her to get away,” Bellamy attempted a conciliatory tone, not sure if he even believed his own words. He’d seen himself how strained the relationship between the Griffins had been ever since his first day on the job.

“Sure,” Clarke bit out, finally opening her door and falling over the darkened threshold. She fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on, toeing her shoes off gracelessly and heading for the four-poster bed. She ripped back the comforter, dropping heavily onto the mattress.

“What’s an 18th birthday even matter here, anyways? I still can’t leave. I can’t get my own car and drive around. I can’t make any adult decisions even though I legally am one.”

“You won’t be here forever, Clarke,” Bellamy said in a gravelly voice, hovering near the door. His work for the day was done.

“It feels that way,” she mumbled. She curled in on herself, her eyes drooping. “It’s so cold. Why is it so cold, Bellamy?”

“Because it’s almost winter and this building’s insulation is dated,” Bellamy answered, a laugh in his voice. Shaking his head, he crossed the plush carpet, his boots soundless against it. Looking down at Clarke’s huddled form with a soft expression, he reached down and pulled the comforter up over her, his callused hands scratching against the soft cotton fabric. As he tucked it up around her neck, she rested a cheek against his hand. It was startlingly warm for someone who claimed to be so cold, and Bellamy froze, taken aback.

“Bellamy, why don’t you believe in soulmates?” Clarke asked, her voice quiet, her eyes still closed.

“I just haven’t seen much evidence to indicate they’re real,” Bellamy said after a few moments’ pause, her cheek still against his hand.

“I hope I have one,” Clarke said faintly, vulnerable in her tired, inebriated state. Bellamy swallowed thickly, brushing a knuckle along her cheek before finally pulling his hand back.

“Well don’t hold your breath,” he replied, his voice gravelly.

Clarke didn’t reply, her breathing soft and even. She had fallen asleep. Bellamy stepped back quietly, heading for the door. He paused to look back.

“I’m not sure there’s anyone out there that could match you.”

“Good night, princess,” he said over his shoulder, glancing at her sleeping form one more time before turning off the lights and slowly drawing room’s heavy door closed as quietly as he could.


	4. The Key Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a journey is taken, a tragedy occurs, and something broken begins to mend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle in, folks -- I accidentally wrote this chapter twice as long as the previous ones. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

* * *

“I can’t wait to take a shower,” Clarke groaned, stepping impatiently from one foot to the other as they waited for the private car to arrive that would escort them from the airport to their hotel. “That flight was so long and time zones are weird and nothing feels real.” She squinted into the mid-morning gray light, desperately wishing for a toothbrush to get rid of the staleness in her mouth.

“Can’t argue with you there,” Bellamy agreed, stifling a yawn. He’d been on a transatlantic flight before, and he had to admit that the luxury of Air Force One was an improvement, but no amount of extra leg room could mitigate the fact of losing six hours of nighttime while up in the air.

President Griffin was standing off to their right, surrounded by her own servicemen and aides, planning out her own agenda for the immigration summit and surrounding conferences. Bellamy was honestly glad that Clarke wasn’t being included in the official agenda this week; he wasn’t ready to deal with the fallout of another policy clash between mother and daughter, and he’d much rather explore London, a place he’d been dying to visit ever since he was a child, instead of sitting in the back of long and ultimately unproductive bureaucratic meetings.

The fleet of cars finally arrived, and despite their exhaustion, Clarke and Bellamy both stayed awake for the entire drive, their eyes glued to the tinted windows. Neither of them had ever been to England, and both were in awe of the looming cityscape.

The hotel was near Hyde Park, and mother and daughter parted ways to their separate suites. Clarke’s suite was likely more modest than the president’s, but Bellamy still marveled at the luxury of it, unable to hold back a skeptical look as he took in his own gilded bedroom and white-marbled bathroom that was to the right of the sitting area and kitchen that he was to share with Clarke.

“So, where’s the butler with silver spoons for us hiding?” Bellamy called out, his eye roll practically audible.

“I opted out of the butler service, actually,” Clarke called back casually from her own bedroom, missing the sarcasm. “I want to try and be as normal as possible on this trip.”

“She says to her en-suite bodyguard from her all-marble bathroom the size of most studio apartments,” Bellamy shot back.

“Not my choice!” She said in exasperation. She emerged from her own room in a thick wool peacoat and a blue scarf, her slept-on hair hidden by a knit beanie. “You ready?” she asked, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. “I want to get across town in time to see the National Gallery and the Tate Modern before they close.”

“Ready when you are,” he responded, zipping up his own jacket. Despite his exhaustion, he was secretly glad Clarke didn’t want to stay in and nap first. He’d never seen London before, and he wanted to make the most of it out on the streets instead of lounging around in a lavish, stifling hotel.

The November air there was even chillier than it was back in Washington, and Clarke and Bellamy walked briskly to the car, Clarke giving the driver instructions as Bellamy rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up. The ride was short, and as they pulled up to Trafalgar Square, Clarke turned to Bellamy before they got out.

“Do you think that we could maybe take the underground today instead of having the car fetch us everywhere? It would be so much quicker, and I don’t think many people here will recognize me, or even if they do, they’ll be too English to say anything.”

Bellamy frowned. She had a point about the trains being less hassle, but they would be so exposed. The threatening poker chip flashed in his head, and his frown deepened.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, beginning to shake his head.

“Please?” Clarke asked, her voice serious. “I’ll be walking around all of those people in the museums, too. That’s really not any different from a sidewalk or a train station. And like I said, I’m not exactly a huge celebrity.”

Bellamy had to admit that she made a good argument. He stared at her for a long moment before finally sighing and fishing out his radio to make the request to the traveling head of security.

“Permission granted. Stay close to the sparrow at all times, though, Blake,” the voice crackled through the speaker.

“Got it,” Bellamy radioed back with a hint of misgiving, then pushed open the car door and held it open for Clarke to scoot out of behind him.

“Remember the deal we made after the concert,” he muttered, his curls whipping in the cold wind.

“If anything seems off, I do what you say, no questions asked, yada yada. I got it. Don’t worry,” she added, her voice a little kinder. “Today’s going to be good.” Her voice was full of determined conviction.

Clarke hurried up the dozens of steps leading to the entrance of the National Gallery, her excitement getting the better of her.

…

“There it is!” Clarke said excitedly, pointing a finger and rushing over to a distant wall. “It’s so amazing seeing his technique on canvas in real life,” Clarke said eagerly, stepping right in front of the painting and staring up at it.

“Van Gogh?” Bellamy raised his eyebrows. “I thought he’d be like, too mainstream for you or something.”

Clarke turned her head as he stepped up to her side and scoffed at him. “He’s popular for a reason, you know.” She pointed to one of the sunflowers in the painting. “His use of color was so bold and unconventional for the time. Combined with his style of brushstroke, there was really no one like him.” Bellamy watched her ponder the painting for a few moments more, her face concentrated yet somehow peaceful all at once.

“Will you take my picture with it?” She asked suddenly, holding out her phone. Bellamy nodded, pulling up her camera as she turned to stand next to it. Bellamy noticed that the yellows and golds in the painting looked faded and dull next to her bright strands peeking out from under her hat. Clarke smiled, striking a few brandishing poses with the painting, holding out her arms toward it as if to show it off while Bellamy snapped a few shots.

“Thanks,” she said, still smiling as she took her phone back and slipped it into her pocket. “Now come on,” she said, pulling the museum map back out. “I want to track down the Caravaggio they have in here somewhere.”

…

“So I think we should block off the entire day tomorrow for the British Museum,” Clarke said over her steaming bowl of butter chicken, blowing on a spoonful before taking a bite.

Bellamy visibly perked up over his plate of greasy fish and chips, quickly swallowing a bite of mushy peas.

“The British Museum?”

“Yes. Knowing you, you’d spend several days in there, but we’re on a time crunch, and there’s stuff in there I want to see as well.” Clarke took a sip of her room-temperature ale and tried not to wince as it went down. She’d gleefully ordered it as soon as she’d sat down at their booth in the pub, delighted that she was of age here, but inwardly she noted that maybe next time she should just give in and go for the fruity cocktail instead.

Bellamy took a sip of his own tap water, which sorely lacked ice. No drinking on the job for him.

“Well, I definitely want to visit the Roman Empire exhibits, and from what you said earlier, it sounds like we both want to visit the Norse rooms, so there’s two “definites” we can put on the list. And if we get the chance, I want to stop in the gift shop there to find something for Octavia.”

Clarke paused, scooping up another spoonful of chicken and eating it before asking, “What’s she like? You don’t talk about her all that much, you know.”

“I guess I don’t, do I?” Bellamy thought for a moment or two, setting down his fork. “Um, she’s around your age. Good street smarts, occasionally hotheaded. A fighter. Her boyfriend Lincoln does a pretty good job of keeping her balanced. Better than I ever did, at least,” Bellamy said ruefully.

“I don’t think that’s your job, Bellamy,” Clarke said, giving him an amused look.

“I mean, it kind of is. We don’t have any other family.” Bellamy looked down at the table as he spoke.

Clarke bit her bottom lip. “I didn’t know,” she said, her voice low.

“It’s fine, why would you?” Bellamy said with a dry chuckle. “I’m the one that gets briefed on your life for this job, not the other way around.”

“I just don’t want to be that person who doesn’t care at all about the people I’m around every day. I should’ve asked about you earlier.”

Bellamy shrugged. “Well, now you know. I…never really knew who my or O’s father was, and our mom passed away while I was in high school.” Bellamy’s expression grew taut.

He suddenly felt pressure on the hand he’d rested on the tabletop, and surprised, he looked to see that Clarke had reached across to briefly squeeze his fingers with her own impossibly warm ones. Her face was soft as she returned her own hand to her lap.

“I know what it’s like to lose a parent,” Clarke said, her eyes absently drifting to the watch around her wrist. “Me and my mom don’t have the best relationship, obviously, but I’m lucky she’s still around. I’m sorry you and Octavia had to go through that.”

Bellamy swallowed thickly, managing a nod. Their eyes met for a few seconds longer than he was used to, and he cleared his throat, racking his brain for a different subject. Before he could say anything, she piped up from across the table.

“So, um, are you gonna eat all of those?” She asked, her hand already snaking toward his chips.

“Actually, I was,” he shot back, swatting her hand away.

…

“Super cute sweater,” Clarke observed with a wry grin as she walked into their shared sitting area the next morning.

“It’s cozy, all right?” Bellamy said defensively, adjusting his burgundy fair-isle patterned knitwear.

“Oh, it looks cozy,” Clarke said, biting into an oversized cranberry and orange muffin. “I wouldn’t be that surprised if it just…mysteriously ended up in my closet one day instead of yours.”

“Don’t even start,” Bellamy grumbled, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a small bottle of orange juice. “Anyways, you’ll be happy to hear that I got us cleared to take the tube around town for the rest of the trip.”

“Thank god,” Clarke exclaimed through a mouthful of muffin. “So much faster and easier that way.”

“They went ahead and got us some prepaid cards.” Bellamy slid Clarke’s across the counter.

“Oyster card,” she read out. “Huh. Is London my oyster? Is this also a voucher for free oyster crackers? I don’t get it.”

“The rail cards in Hong Kong are called Octopus cards. Maybe it’s a global theme?” Bellamy offered.

“You’d be so good at _Jeopardy!_,” Clarke replied, dusting muffin crumbs from her hands. She shrugged into her coat, stuffing the oyster card into the pocket. “Come on. I want to be there when it opens.”

…

“I can’t believe we stayed until closing time,” Clarke griped, her shoulder knocking into Bellamy’s as they walked down the street away from the museum. “They were seriously going to have to kick you out.”

“There were so many things in there to see! And the gift shop was huge. I didn’t know what Octavia would like best.” Bellamy carried a gift bag at his side that crinkled against his pant leg.

“I’m sure the book of ancient weaponry you got her will be an excellent addition to her coffee table,” Clarke said confidently. The sun had set over an hour ago, and she shivered slightly in the colder night air.

“Let’s go to another bar tonight,” she exclaimed. “I’m cold and I want a do-over for ordering drinks. I’d love to have something that doesn’t taste like lukewarm piss.”

…

“Oh, my god.” Clarke, three moscow mules in, slapped the table in amazement. “It’s karaoke night!”

“Absolutely not.” Bellamy’s voice was incredulous, his eyes rolling upward.

“Oh, come on! I’m dying to see what song you would choose.” Clarke stared at him with puppyish eyes.

“Nope. No way. I don’t sing,” Bellamy said stonily, putting his foot down.

Clarke stared him down for a few more moments before throwing up her hands. “Fine then, you square.”

“Who even says that anymore?”

“Me!” Clarke took another sip of her drink. “Whatever. _I’m_ gonna do one.” She pushed back from the table abruptly and walked over to the crowd in the corner gathered around a girl at a microphone drunkenly wailing through a Celine Dion song.

“Clarke, I don’t think that’s a great idea-” Bellamy began, but she was already out of hearing range. Bellamy groaned, rubbing a hand down his face before pushing back his own chair and following after her.

“Me next!” she chirped, pushing through the crowd toward the microphone. Concentrating hard, she scanned through the playlist, her mouth twisting in concentration before she finally selected something near the very bottom. She pulled the mic from the stand and stepped back a bit, waiting for the song to cue up.

Moody guitar strums began to play, eventually shifting into a full electric set, and Bellamy recognized a song he hadn’t heard on the radio since he was a kid.

“_Another head hangs lowly, child is slowly taken,_” Clarke sang, her voice a little darker than Bellamy had expected. It was no longer slightly flat, like it had been when she was screaming at the concert a few weeks ago. The small crowd, recognizing the lyrics, let out a few whistles and whoops.

Clarke continued through the first verse, not even looking at the lyrics on screen, her voice a low alto and a little rough with drink. As she got to the chorus, people around her joined in.

“_What’s in your head?_

_In your head,_

_Zombie, zombie, zombie…_”

Clarke’s voice cracked a bit on one of the lyrics, and she muttered an expletive into the mic, eliciting chuckles from the more sober patrons seated back from the karaoke spot.

Bellamy didn’t know if he was surprised about her singing or not. He guessed he’d expected her to be either really excellent at it or completely tone-deaf. Turns out she was somewhere in the middle -- nothing flashy or technically perfect, but still nice to listen to. He stayed near the back of the crowd, watching her sway back and forth to the instrumental bit that winded down the song. Bellamy glanced around the dim bar, waiting for her to come back over to him. It was then that he noticed something that made his mouth go dry.

A man standing near the wall was staring Clarke down, his eyes narrow and calculating. When he finally tore his glance away, it was to look down to his phone and snap a picture, typing a message out right afterward before tucking his phone back into his coat. He moved a step closer, his eyes glued to Clarke once more. The hairs on the back of Bellamy’s neck stood up.

He quickly pushed his way through the small crowd and grabbed Clarke’s elbow.

“It’s time to go,” he said in her ear, ushering her back through the crowd toward the door.

“But why-?” Clarke stopped mid-sentence when she looked up into his face, suddenly sobering a bit at the sight of alarm in his expression.

“We made a deal, remember?” He said, briskly keeping them moving toward the exit.

Clarke nodded, fumbling with the buttons on her coat as they emerged into an icy wind. Bellamy turned to look back through the window, and the man was still staring them down, not breaking his gaze as he now talked on his phone.

Bellamy hurried them across the street, ducked around a corner, and led them down into an underground station without checking which one they were at.

“Bellamy,” Clarke asked in an urgent tone, sobering up by the minute as they waited for the next train. “What was it?”

“There was a man staring you down, taking pictures…it didn’t feel right,” he struggled for words in a voice only she could hear.

Clarke’s windburned cheeks paled a little. “Thanks for getting me out. I didn’t notice,” she said, her gaze sweeping the platform anxiously.

Clarke shook herself slightly. “Well. It’s a good thing we’re going somewhere outside of London tomorrow then, I guess.”

“Huh?” Bellamy hadn’t heard of the next day’s agenda yet.

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise,” she said with a sly smile.

“I don’t like surprises,” Bellamy frowned, still on edge, his hand hovering near his holster.

“You’ll like this one,” Clarke quipped back, her voice still a little unsteady.

The train squealed into the station, and they shuffled into a crowded compartment with standing room only. Bellamy gripped an overhead handrail, while Clarke stood under his arm, clinging to a vertical pole. She looked up at him, and they were both suddenly aware that their noses were inches apart. Bellamy saw anxiety swimming behind her eyes, mirroring his own.

“We’ll be fine,” he said softly, holding her gaze. She nodded, her lips turned down at the corners, her brow furrowed. Her eyes danced back and forth between his deep brown ones, skimming over the freckles that peppered his nose and cheekbones.

The train lurched suddenly to one of the stops - not theirs - and Clarke lost her balance slightly, falling into Bellamy’s broad chest. Bellamy’s hand automatically looped behind her back, steadying her. Her nose brushed against the soft wool of his sweater. As the train finally wobbled to a stop, she sighed deeply, and instead of pulling back, she rested her cheek in the soft spot between his collarbone and his shoulder. Feeling her breathe against him, Bellamy tightened his hold around her waist, keeping her flush with him instead of letting go.

…

Bellamy awoke to a sudden weight on the mattress next to him and a hand shaking his shoulder. “Bellamy, get up. We have a train to catch.” Clarke’s voice was soft in the darkness, but it still startled him. He groaned a bit, nuzzling his face further into the pillow.

“Bellamy.” Clarke’s voice held a hint of menace. “I will throw water in your face. And I won’t feel bad about it.”

“Fine,” came a growl from deep within the pillow. Bellamy threw the comforter off, then recoiled. “Oof. Cold.”

“It’s even colder where we’re going, so dress warm.” Clarke gave his shoulder a quick pat, then headed back into the kitchen area.

Clarke scanned through her phone as she gobbled down some instant oatmeal, double-checking the train times and station directions they needed for today.

He was going to love it once they got there.

Bellamy emerged fifteen minutes later, wrapped in his warmest coat, a pair of thick-knit gloves hanging out of his pocket.

“Will this work?” He asked, gesturing to himself before grabbing a banana.

“Should be fine,” Clarke nodded, looping a plaid scarf around her neck several times. “You might want to grab a book for the train, though.”

“Jesus, Clarke, where are we going?” Bellamy asked as he multitasked, wolfing down his banana while hunting down the paperback he brought with him to shove into his coat pocket.

“How many times do I have to say it’s a surprise?” She said flatly, stuffing her own pair of mittens into her pocket.

“It’s not even light outside yet,” Bellamy said in annoyance, making sure he had his holster and his radio all in place.

“It will be soon enough,” Clarke assured him, tugging on a sherpa hat complete with earflaps onto her blond head. She stooped to tighten the laces on her boots, and, satisfied, stood up straight and beckoned toward the door.

“Now come on, slowpoke, we’ve got to walk down to the tube like, right now.”

…

Clarke hadn’t let Bellamy see the tickets she’d shown the platform guard at King’s Cross, ushering him quickly into a pair of seats in a half-full compartment. She took the window seat, unwinding her scarf and using it as a pillow against the cold glass.

“London Northeastern Railway,” Bellamy read off the scrolling screen at the front of the compartment. “Service from London King’s Cross to Newcastle Central Station.” Bellamy turned to look at Clarke. “What the hell is in Newcastle?” He saw her roll her eyes and begin to respond before he interrupted. “A surprise, I got it, I got it.” Bellamy looked carefully around the compartment, wary of their surroundings even more than usual after last night.

“It’s a three-hour train ride, so you might as well make yourself comfortable,” Clarke told him as she wiggled into a more comfortable position against the window.

Bellamy meant to get some reading in on the train, but he couldn’t help but gaze out the window toward the English countryside the whole time. Rollings hills and fields bitten with morning frost eventually gave way to steeper landscapes and moors blanketed in deep purple. Several times, he caught Clarke staring out as well.

“Arriving at Newcastle, Central Station,” A voice announced over the intercom. Bellamy quickly ushered Clarke out of the train car and onto a relatively open portion of the platform, ever-wary of crowds.

Bellamy stomped his feet slightly. “You weren’t kidding about the cold,” Bellamy said, glancing up at the digital sign over the platform. It read 6ºC. Bellamy did the conversion math in his head and slipped his gloves back on with another shiver. “Where to next then, princess, if you won’t tell me where to go.”

Clarke scanned the signs that hung around the train station. “We need to take a bus,” she answered distractedly.

“And so the neverending public transit continues,” Bellamy noted wryly.

“Hah, there’s the sign. Come on,” she ordered, grabbing him by the coat sleeve. She led them to a public bus, and when they settled in, she pushed him toward the window seat this time. As the bus picked up locals from stop after stop, Bellamy noticed that the accents were thicker up here -- some so thick he couldn’t even understand what they were saying.

Bellamy watched as the bus pushed them further into a rural area, the sky gray-white and gloomy as a faint wind whipped through the bare branches on the trees.

“We’re getting off at Corbridge,” Clarke informed him, checking something on her phone.

“There’s almost nothing out here.” Bellamy paused, looking at Clarke suspiciously. “Are you taking me out here to kill me and bury my body in a field?”

Clarke snorted. “Are you kidding? Then they’d have to start all over with me and another bodyguard, and it would probably be way worse than you.”

Bellamy shook his head and returned his gaze to the fields passing by. He noticed something interrupting the soft patches of grass and frost. Gray-green, heavily weathered stones were stacked on top of one another, neat in some places and haphazard in others. Though some stretches of stacked stone had been knocked low, other parts were waist high or higher. Regardless, there was no denying what it was.

A wall.

“_Hadrian’s Wall_?” Bellamy gasped at Clarke, his voice cracking.

“I thought you would’ve guessed it by now,” Clarke said with a twisting smile. “We’re stopping off at one of the Roman sites before we walk it for a bit.”

“I-” Bellamy was speechless. He was quiet, trying to gather his thoughts. “This is pretty incredible, princess.” He swallowed visibly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Clarke said, waving a hand dismissively. “I saw you reading that book on Roman rule in Britain a while back and figured it would be a fun day trip. Besides, after last night, it seems like hustling up nearly to Scotland for the day was a good idea.”

A few minutes later, the bus whined to a stop, and Clarke nudged Bellamy, nodding toward the door.

“It’s about a mile’s walk,” she said over her shoulder, shoving her fists into her pockets.

Two pairs of boots trudged along a dirt road as they headed for the Roman site. They were, for the most part, alone on the road; apparently, not many people wanted to traipse around ancient outdoor sites on a weekday morning in near-freezing weather. Clarke reached up to grab the tassels of her hat, pulling the earflaps further down. Walking was warming her up a little, but the frosty gusts of wind kept counteracting any increased body heat she felt.

They approached the site slowly. No one else stood around the carefully patterned squares of stone, dotted with remains of stairs and pillars and arches. Clarke stepped up to one side of the wall, her eyes dragging up and down it.

“So...this is it?” She said skeptically, gesturing to one of the crumbling stairways.

Bellamy scowled. “Come on,” he said disapprovingly. “This fort is like, 2,000 years old. It’s eight times older than the country that we’re from. And it’s _still here._ There’s no way you can deny that that’s cool.”

“Chill,” Clarke replied with a laugh. “I was kidding. Mostly.”

She shuffled over to stand next to him. “Sorry the museum’s closed,” she said, squinting into the wind.

“I’ll live,” Bellamy said reassuringly. He glanced over at her, studying her face for a moment, his eyes warm. He noticed her shiver a bit, and he tugged on one of her hat tassels.

“Come on, you look like you could use a hot drink. Wanna stop at that pub back in the village and then we can come back out after?”

“Yes please,” Clarke answered readily, bouncing from foot to foot. “I could drink about a gallon of hot cocoa right now.”

…

The warmth of the cocoa Clarke had consumed stayed with her as they walked away from the small village and back toward the ancient stone wall. As they reached a segment of the stones stacked a little lower than the rest, Clarke climbed up onto them, waiting for Bellamy to join her before she trekked on.

“I used to do this when I was a kid, too,” Clarke began, gesturing to her feet. “I’d walk on anything that wasn’t the sidewalk. Curbs, rails, concrete barriers, retaining walls, you name it. There’s something about being a little higher up than you’re supposed to be.”

“Maybe you should be a pilot,” Bellamy said lightly.

“Yeah, that would never fly with my mother,” Clarke replied, then winced. “No pun intended.”

“Why not?” Bellamy asked, reaching back to turn his coat collar up against the wind. “I feel like that would be a nice feel-good, all-American type story. ‘First Daughter Reaches for the Sky’ or whatever.”

“It’s not that. I think she’d be afraid of me following in my father’s footsteps.” Clarke paused briefly to kick a pebble off the wall and into the dry, yellowing grass below. “That I wouldn’t just be a pilot, that I’d want to do something dangerous with my career choice like he did. Like, he could’ve been a regular old office-job journalist, but instead, he decided to become a war correspondent. I guess she thinks that instead of me just being some commercial airline pilot, she assumes I’d end up flying into war zones or something like that.”

Bellamy cast her a sideways glance. “Well, I think your mom probably has a fair point on that one.”

Clarke shrugged. “Everyone wants to do something that matters.”

“The world would be a better place if that were true,” Bellamy responded, leaning into her shoulder slightly. He stopped walking and turned out to look over the rolling hills beyond them. He sighed contentedly, his eyes scanning the countryside. Clarke silently stopped as well, studying his face instead of the landscape. It really was amazing how he still had freckles on his tan skin in the middle of November. Clarke saw the beginnings of a smile curving up his lips, and for the first time, she noted how unexpectedly sweet it was.

Bellamy began to turn toward her, and she quickly turned her face to the wall beneath their feet in an attempt not to get caught staring. Her studious observance of the ground, however, elicited a small gasp of delight.

“A poppy!” She hopped down off the wall, peering closer at the small red flower. “No one told you your growing season was over, did they, little guy? What a little survivor.”

Bellamy grinned down at her from his perch on the wall.

“You know what? I’m not gonna pick it. If the little fella made it through this many frosts, he deserves his post as sentry and I’m not going to disturb him.” Clarke stood up, dusting her mittens off briefly, and Bellamy gave her an amused look as he extended his own gloved hand, helping her back up onto the wall. Clicking her tongue, Clarke stepped to face the opposite direction that Bellamy had been looking, and a hill a mile or two in the distance caught her eye.

“Bellamy, do you see what I’m seeing right now?” Clarke asked excitedly, blindly slapping at his arm.

Bellamy turned to look where she was pointing, and when his glance stopped in recognition, his head tilted back as if to say “you’ve got to be kidding.”

“Ah yes, finally. A castle for our princess, since apparently the White House just wasn’t enough.”

…

“We walked all the way up this hill and it’s closed for the day,” Bellamy rolled his eyes, his gloved hands resting on his hips.

“No we didn’t,” Clarke panted slightly, shrewdly surveying the grounds for signs of life. “No one’s here to stop us from a quick look around.”

“You want to get yelled at by a crotchety old caretaker?” Bellamy frowned.

“We _won’t_,” Clarke replied confidently, still slightly out of breath. “Come on,” she grinned, passing him with determination.

Bellamy watched her walking toward the ramparts for a few seconds before shaking his head with a smile and following.

“It’s so dark in here,” Clarke’s voice echoed slightly off the old stone walls, the scant daylight making her hair shine silver.

“Well, you see, Clarke, they didn’t have electricity in the thirteenth century,” Bellamy began, ambling up to her side.

“Ha ha, you’re so funny,” Clarke said dryly.

Bellamy tugged his gloves off and shoved them in his pocket before reaching a hand out, splaying his fingers against the cold stone of the wall, worn smooth over the centuries.

“I wonder which dickish old white guy built this place,” Clarke asked aloud, turning to face her companion.

“It wasn’t a member of the landed gentry, or else I would’ve probably recognized the manor name,” Bellamy replied, which was met with a snort from Clarke. “So probably a merchant or something along those lines.”

Clarke inhaled the damp, earthy smell of the room they were in. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said suddenly, hustling toward a set of blocky stone steps.

The steps led her to the open-air walkway on top of the rampart, and a cold wind whipped forcefully against her, reddening her nose and cheeks.

“Shit, that’s brutal,” Bellamy said as he emerged as well, his voice almost lost on the wind. Clarke turned to reply, but she lost sight of him as the wind swept her hair across her face, her golden strands dancing in the icy bluster.

Bellamy laughed as he gently brushed her hair from her face with his still-bare fingers. He tucked it gently behind her ear. “The view’s too nice for you to miss it.” His thumb brushed the soft spot behind her jaw, right beneath her ear, and Clarke’s shiver deepened. She avoided his eyes as she quickly turned to look at the view, but if she hadn’t, she’d have seen that his gaze was avoiding hers too.

“Maybe I _could _get used to being a princess,” Clarke teased, grasping the stone railing with her mittened hands. Bellamy quickly tugged his own gloves back on, rubbing his palms together for warmth. “Imagine what that field looks like when all of the poppies are still in bloom.”

“Really?” Bellamy’s expression was doubtful.

“Nah, you’re right. I’d probably enjoy the position of the local bridge troll more, or something.” Clarke laughed, her voice cracking from cold.

“Hey, do you think that little patch of forest there could be a shortcut back to the village? I’m actually not sure I’m cut out for this level of cold.” Clarke stamped her boots a little, shivering.

“I’m no orienteer, but probably,” Bellamy answered, squinting, his own arms crossed tightly against his chest.

They exchanged a short glance, then both nodded. “Let’s go,” they chorused, turning to traipse back down the stairs and into the frostbitten woods.

…

“I should probably call Octavia when we get back into the village,” Bellamy mused, sidestepping a large fallen branch as they meandered through the woods. “I haven’t heard from her all week.”

“Same with my mom, but I’m not complaining about that,” Clarke said ruefully. She pulled a prickly hanging branch aside so both of them could pass. “Funny how we haven’t seen her at all even though her suite is two doors down from ours.”

“Being president is one of the busiest jobs there is, I imagine,” Bellamy said diplomatically, though secretly he too was surprised that President Griffin hadn’t dropped by. This trip was supposed to be Clarke’s birthday gift, and he’d at least expected some kind of fancy dinner.

Clarke said nothing, but let the spiky branch snap back into place rather aggressively after they’d passed under it.

“I can’t believe we’re already going back home tomorrow,” Clarke said, tugging her hat a little further over her ears. “It feels like there’s so much we haven’t seen yet.”

“Maybe you should come over here for college,” Bellamy suggested.

Clarke’s shoulders drooped. “That won’t be happening any time soon.” She forged ahead, her expression stony.

Bellamy frowned. “Why not?”

“Given the polemical circumstances of my mother’s campaign and presidency, it’s been deemed too high of a security risk for me to attend college while she’s in office. So, no college for me for the next three - or possibly seven - years.” Clarke’s voice was flat, empty.

Bellamy stopped walking. “I thought spouses and adult children had the right to refuse presidential security details.”

Clarke was a few feet ahead before she realized Bellamy had halted. She stopped, turning to him with a bitter grimace. “They did until this year. The level of threats that accompanied my mother’s election led to the matter being brought back up in congress, and ‘due to matters of safety as well as national security,’” Clarke’s fingers made air quotes around the phrase, “the law got overturned. I no longer have the right to refuse a detail until my mother is out of office.”

Bellamy’s mind flashed back to Clarke, passed out cold on a coat closet floor, the feel of the smooth, horrifying hidden poker chip in his hand as he waited for her to wake up. _DOWN WITH THE GRIFFINS._

“That really sucks.” He glanced down at the muddy, leaf-carpeted forest floor between them. “But I think neither of us can deny that right now, it makes sense.”

“Doesn’t make it suck any less,” Clarke retorted, turning and continuing to hike forward. “I never fucking signed up for this.” Frustrated, she kicked a nearby tree stump. The rubber toe of her boot caught a sharp piece of bark, and she swore, hopping on her unharmed foot.

Bellamy hurried to catch up. “Clarke, did you seriously just break your toe on that little tree stump?”

Clarke looked up at him with a scowl from her crouched position. “My toe is fine, but thanks for the concern,” she growled. “It’s my boot that’s suffering.”

Bellamy looked down to see the rubber sole of her boot lying severed on the ground, completely torn from the top of the shoe by the sharp, knobby bark of the stump. Clarke held her sock-bare foot in her hand, struggling to keep it from sinking into the freezing mud.

Bellamy chuckled. “Ah. The princess just doesn’t want to get her feet dirty.”

“Bellamy, come on! These socks are thin, and you know how deep this mud is! And it’s _freezing_!”

Bellamy shook his head, a faint grin still gracing his lips. Clarke huffed, squaring her shoulders.

“Whatever.” Her cheeks flushed with cold and annoyance, she turned, bracing herself for when her thin socks would meet the icy-cold, thick mud.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bellamy interjected, grabbing her sides from behind before she could put her foot down. “I was messing with you. No one wants frostbitten toes.” He moved so that he was standing in front of her, one hand still on her waist to help her balance. “Hop on my back.”

Clarke raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It can’t be that much further. What, do you not think I’m strong enough?”

Clarke bit the corner of her bottom lip. “It’s not that. This is just ridiculous.”

“And so it is, but we’re still gonna do it. Come on, you can keep me warm.”

Clarke’s eyes rolled so hard they stung a little, but she finally hopped toward him, grumbling as she placed her hands on the back of his shoulders. He bent his knees, hunching low enough for her to vault herself onto his broad, wool-covered back. He hitched his gloved hands under her thighs, just behind the knees, and Clarke wrapped her arms arms around his neck, her forearms locked over his collarbones.

Clarke’s cheeks heated at the thought of her weighing too much for this, but she tried to push it out of her mind, and he seemed to be lifting her easily enough.   
“Lead on,” she directed in her poshest voice, her face mock-serious.

Bellamy adjusted his grip a bit, his thumbs brushing the soft spot where her thighs met the backs of her knees. He tried not to think about the way her warm breath danced by his jawline, right beneath his ear, or how warm her body felt pressed against his back.

…

“O, you sound terrible,” Bellamy observed, his phone clutched to his ear as he sat across from Clarke inside a warm, golden-lit tea shop. His fingers rapped rhythmically on the worn wood of the tabletop.

“It’s nothing,” Octavia wheezed over the phone, sneezing violently into the receiver. “It’s just a bad cold. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“Does your body ache?”

Octavia sighed. “Yes, but I’m just tired. It happens to everyone.”

“No, O. You’ve got the flu. Remember when you had it when you were little? You were _so _sick.”

“Well, even if I do, Bell, it’s just the flu. I’m not going to die from it. This isn’t the 1800s or anything.”

“You’d be surprised.” Bellamy frowned. “Just get Lincoln to drive you to a clinic, okay? They can help you get better faster.”

“Can’t, he’s on a business trip in Philadelphia for three more days. I’m not gonna make him drive back early just to play chauffeur for me.”

“O,” Bellamy admonished. Clarke peered at him over her oversized mug of chai latte, eavesdropping shamelessly.

“Bellamy, it’s seriously-” she coughed wetly, “-seriously fine. I can take care of myself, okay?”

Bellamy ground his teeth, his eyes narrowing. “If you say so, O. Please take care though, for real, okay?”

“You got it, big brother,” She rasped.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Back at ya.”

Bellamy shook his head as he ended the call.

“Is she okay?” Clarke asked, leaning forward to fold her cold foot up under her on the seat.

“She’s definitely got the flu, and she’s home alone.” Bellamy looked grim.

“We’ll be back in town tomorrow night, though, right?” Clarke offered. “Do you think she could hold out until then?”

Bellamy’s expression darkened. “Last time she had it, she was little and refused to get any rest. She got up off the couch too fast and passed out cold on the kitchen floor.”

Clarke winced. “Yeah, maybe not. What about Lincoln?”

“He’s out of town on business for three more days in Philly. But honestly? I know him. He’d come home and look after her if he knew she was that sick. She hasn’t told him.”

Bellamy unlocked his phone screen again and quickly began typing out a text.

“What are you doing?” Clarke asked.

“I’m texting him about her. Philly is only a three-hour drive back to DC, and I know he’d totally agree with me here.”

“And Octavia won’t be mad that you’re going over her head with this decision?”

One corner of Bellamy’s mouth pulled down. “Oh, she will be. But she’ll get over it soon enough. I just don’t want her getting sicker or hurting herself.” He hit send and laid his phone screen-up on the table next to his untouched hot cocoa.

“That’s fair enough. Honestly, Lincoln will probably be happy you said something, too.” Clarke slurped from her mug. “She’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy said distractedly, glancing down at his phone in the middle of taking a huge sip of cocoa. “Fuck, it’s still hot,” he spluttered, panting a little.

Clarke giggled as he swiped open his screen.

“He said he’ll drive back down to check on her as soon as the session he’s in is over,” Bellamy said, relief tingeing his grumbly voice.

“See, it’s all settled.” Clarke peered out the window, adjusting her scarf. “Hey, do you think that shoe shop down the block would sell me just one boot?”

…

Clarke packed early the next morning in a zombie-like trance, wiping sleep from her eyes as she threw things into her suitcase. She wasn’t ready to go back to the prison on Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Clarke, aren’t you ready yet?” Bellamy called annoyingly from the common area. Her eyes flickered shut momentarily before yanking an extra sweater for the plane out of her suitcase, tossing in the last of her socks, and zipping the suitcase quickly shut.

“I made you some tea,” Bellamy said as she shuffled into the kitchen, pouring her a cup as he spoke. A croissant lay next to her cup and saucer. Clarke could smell the steaming earl grey from across the room, and she smiled faintly. It was one of her favorites. She wondered briefly if he’d noticed that about her, or it was just a coincidence. Grabbing a tiny carton of milk from the fridge and snagging some sugar packets, she sat down at the counter and doctored her tea.

“You ready to go home?” Bellamy asked, popping the last bit of his own croissant into his mouth as he used his other hand to secure his radio to his belt.

“No,” Clarke answered quietly, swirling her tea around with a spoon. “It was nice here, being able to go out to eat, visit the museums, walk around the city without an army of suits at my back.”

“You were stuck with me,” Bellamy added lightly, looking in the fridge for a water bottle.

“You don’t really count,” Clarke said wryly, picking at her pastry.

Bellamy tilted his head, trying to decide if that was a compliment. He turned around to ask her, but before he could say anything, he noticed her downcast eyes swimming as she discreetly tried to wipe away a tear with her sweater sleeve.

“Hey,” Bellamy said, and Clarke averted her gaze at the sound of his gravelly, sympathetic voice. “It’s going to be okay.”

“How will it be?” Clarke said, defeated, frustrated. “When we get back everything will be exactly like it was before we left. I’ll just be trapped in that stupid, giant, empty house with a mother who sees me as a liability and basically no friends and no life.” Clarke cringed at the whine in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Getting a taste of freedom here in England made it so much harder to go home.

Bellamy braced his hands on the counter, leaning across it toward her slightly. “It won’t be for forever, Clarke.”

“It feels that way.” Clarke’s voice cracked a bit. “I still have at least three more years left to go, and if my mom gets re-elected, I won’t even be able to go outside by myself until I’m 25. I won’t even be able to go to _college_ until I’m 25.”

Bellamy swallowed thickly, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t wrong. It honestly _was_ a pretty awful situation for someone as young as Clarke to look forward to. Clarke looked up as she heard his footsteps come around to her side of the counter.

Bellamy reached down, closing his hand over her smaller, colder one. “You won’t be alone,” he promised in a low voice. She finally looked him full in the face at his words, her eyes still wet over glazed, flushed cheeks. She sniffled, her gaze not breaking from his soft, warm eyes.

“Thank you,” she finally said, her palm flipping under his and squeezing it.

Three loud knocks rattled the door to the hall, and they both jumped, dropping each other’s hands.

“We’re moving out, agent Blake,” a clipped voice said through the door. Clarke groaned, then slid off her seat to fetch her suitcase. She stuffed the rest of her croissant in her mouth at once, trying to chew it down as she went.

…

“I think I’m done with flying for awhile,” Clarke said as she stumbled out onto the curb toward the black SUV.

“Are your arms tired from all that flapping?” Bellamy asked, deadpan. Clarke punched his shoulder.

“I can’t believe you actually made that joke out loud around people who can hear you,” she grumbled.

Bellamy didn’t respond. He was staring intently down at the screen of his personal phone. His brow furrowed deeply.

“Is everything okay?” Clarke asked, noticing his face grow pale.

Bellamy swallowed thickly, still staring at the screen in his hand.

“Bellamy,” Clarke murmured, her voice lower, her hand going to his arm. She noticed the gaze of one of her mother’s security detail personnel on her hand, and she quickly dropped it. “Say something.”

Mutely, he tilted his phone screen up to show her a single message on the screen from Octavia.

_Lincoln is dead. And it’s all your fault._

…

Bellamy stopped at the hospital nearest to Lincoln’s apartment first. His sister hadn’t responded to any of his calls or texts from the cab that he’d hailed, leaving Clarke with her substitute bodyguard and a pained look on her face.

When he’d first met her, he would have assumed the pained look was because she’d been annoyed at being left so unceremoniously. Now, he half-thought that he and the people he cared about might actually matter to her, too.

Neither Lincoln nor Octavia were at the hospital.

She still wouldn’t answer her phone.

They weren’t at the next eight hospitals he checked, either.

Cold, defeated, and jetlagged, he stumbled into Lincoln and Octavia’s apartment building with a swelling knot of dread in his stomach about ten hours later.

“Octavia.” he rapped on their front door.

Nothing.

“O, please. I’ve looked everywhere for you. All day.”

A century passed in the ten seconds it took for her to open the door.

“Leave me alone.” Her voice still rasped with illness.

Bellamy sniffed nervously, twisting his hands together. “Won’t -- won’t you at least tell me what happened?”

Octavia’s eyes deadened her voice monotone. “You called Lincoln when I told you not to. Lincoln got in his car to come down and check on me. Lincoln was in a head-on collision. It killed him. I had to go alone to the morgue to identify his body. I came back here.” She finished abruptly, crossing her arms.

“O, I’m -- I’m-”

“I don’t care. Leave me alone.”

Bellamy grimaced. “I’m so sorry, O. I was scared for you - I know how you are when you get sick - and Lincoln _wanted_ to drive down, he agreed with me. It -- it was an accident, and I’m so, so sorry. Please, O. Tell me how I can help. Tell me what I can do.”

“What you can do,” Octavia said slowly, her voice menacingly low, “is never speak to me again. Never come here again.” She coughed, her voice raspier when she spoke again. “This happened _because of you_. Lincoln is dead. Because. Of. You.”

Bellamy’s eyes widened. “Octavia, please. We just wanted to take care of you. No one could have known-”

“You have ruined _everything._” Octavia’s eyes bored into him. Bellamy’s hands spread toward her, wide in supplication.

“You’re dead to me now, too.” Her voice rang of finality as she slammed the door in his face. Bellamy ducked his head toward the ground, the tears that had been welling in his eyes finally spilling over. When he stumbled into the empty stairwell, they turned into wracking sobs.

…

Two days later, Bellamy headed to work in a fog. For two days, he’d been off work, and he hadn’t left his apartment once. He hadn’t eaten. He’d barely had anything to drink. He struggled to pick himself up off the couch for longer than five minutes at a time.

As he dressed for work, the place where he spent the majority of his waking hours, he still couldn’t help but feel a crushing weight that he’d lost everything that mattered.

He’d called his sister so many times that last night, he got an automated response that the number was no longer in service.

She’d changed it because she hated him _that _much.

She’d meant everything she said.

Bile rose in his throat at the thought of her final words to him, but there was nothing left in his stomach to empty.

Maybe she was right. A man was _dead_ because of him.

Bellamy squeezed his eyes shut on the metro into downtown. He didn’t want to look at anyone. He didn’t want to think. It felt like his body was being eaten from the inside out with shame. With loss.

He never knew his father. His mother was gone. His career never kept him in one place long enough to make friends. Now Lincoln was dead, and it wouldn’t have happened if Bellamy hadn’t spoken to him. And now Octavia - the person he loved more than anything in the world - never wanted to see him again.

What did he even have left?

…

Bellamy’s relief guard - Hector again - knocked on Clarke’s door abruptly. “Agent Blake is taking over from here,” his voice boomed from the other side of the thick wooden door. Clarke, still slightly jetlagged and a bit groggy, had dozed off in her bed with her history textbook still in her lap, and she jolted up at the sound of Hector leaving. Rubbing her eyes, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and stumbled in the lamplight toward the door. She hadn’t seen Bellamy in days, and she had no idea what kind of fallout had resulted in the text Bellamy had shown her after they landed back in the states.

Clarke yanked her bedroom door open, squinting at the bright light of the hallway that was amplified by her blackout-curtain-darkened room.

Bellamy stood in an “at-ease” position by her door, his head bowed.

“Hey, aren’t you going to come in?” Clarke tried to catch his gaze, but failed.

“Why would I do that when I can do my job just as well at my station here?” His voice was flat, emotionless.

Something was very wrong.

“Maybe because I like it better when you keep me company instead of standing out here like a statue,” Clarke said in a raspy voice, still shaking off sleep.

Bellamy said nothing.

Clarke crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe, inching closer to him. “Bellamy, I don’t know what happened but -- but do you want to talk about it? I’m here to listen.” Clarke reached out a hand to his upper arm.

Bellamy jerked out of her reach. Clarke recoiled slightly, unsure of what to do. “Bellamy, can’t we just-”

“You know what, Griffin?” He cut her off, finally meeting her eyes. His dark ones were as impenetrable as stone. “Cut it out. I’m your bodyguard. Not your friend.”

Stunned, Clarke bit down on her bottom lip. Heat rose in her cheeks as he coldly held her gaze.

“Fine,” she finally said, her voice cracking. Bellamy finally looked away. “Sorry to bother you.”

Clarke quickly disappeared back into her room, shutting the door a little harder than she had to.

As she crawled back into bed, she couldn’t help but think that he was probably right. He was a hired employee, obligated only to keep her safe. Not to be her friend. That just didn’t stop what he said from stinging. She thought that maybe -- maybe they had been friends. But what did she know?

Pulling the blankets up to her chin, she realized she still had no idea what had happened to Bellamy’s sister and her boyfriend. Frowning, she pulled out her phone from under her pillow and did a quick search for fatal car accidents along I-95 in the past 4 days. The last thing she’d heard about him was when Bellamy had texted him about driving down to check on Octavia, so a car wreck was the only thing Clarke could think to search without knowing Lincoln’s full name. It was the first news article result.

“One dead in head-on collision southbound on I-95”…“Lincoln Forster of Washington, D.C.”…

So he was gone, then. Clarke thought back to Bellamy waffling on whether or not to upset Octavia by letting Lincoln know she was sick.

And Octavia probably blamed Bellamy for his death.

Clarke’s stomach dropped, even though she was lying down.

It wasn’t Bellamy’s fault, but she knew it must be absolutely impossible for him to believe that.

But what did it matter, anyways? Clarke shook herself. He literally just told her they weren’t friends. His feelings weren’t her business.

Clarke didn’t have the heart to pick her history textbook back up. She moved it to the nightstand and switched her lamplight back off.

When she woke up again, it was hours later to the sound of someone delivering her dinner. She opened the door to take the tray, casting a quick glance at Bellamy. He was still standing in the same place he was this morning. He gave no indication that he even noticed her presence.

Keeping her face impassive, Clarke turned around and closed the door.

…

Weeks of minimal interaction between Bellamy and Clarke passed. He didn’t sit in with her while she did her studies, he didn’t share meals with her -- he barely spoke even when she asked a direct question.

Clarke tried for the first few days to get him to talk. Clearly, he was suffering, but nothing worked. And eventually, she couldn’t think of anything else to try.

He’d worked all day on Thanksgiving. Clarke guessed he probably didn’t have anywhere else to go.

The Thanksgiving dinner between her and her mom hadn’t been great. The turkey was dry, the sides - made specially to “help Clarke with her diet” - were not tasty or filling, and there hadn’t even been any pie. The stilted conversation between her and her mother certainly didn’t add anything.

Clarke woke up the morning after Thanksgiving still hungry. Dressing quickly, she decided that, fuck her “diet,” she was going to remedy that in the most defiant way she could think of. She didn’t care if she looked “chubby” in the White House annual Christmas photo.

“We’re going to the kitchens,” she announced breezily to a stony-faced Bellamy as she stepped out her door. He said nothing, but she knew he was following her.

She traipsed all the way down to Monty’s culinary sanctum in a faded sweatshirt and yoga pants, her thick socks muffling her footsteps but still drawing looks from the professionally-dressed staffers trafficking the halls.

“Hey Monty,” Clarke called out as she headed deeper into the labyrinth that was the kitchens.

“What’s up?” Monty poked his head out from behind a proving rack to Clarke’s left.

“Do you have any pie crusts already rolled out? If so, can I have one?”

“You’re just going to eat pie crust dough? I knew your cravings could get weird, Clarke, but this is next-level.”  
Clarke pinched her face. “No, I’m not going to eat pie crust dough, I’m going to _make a pie_. I’m sure you of all people expected me to be disappointed at the lack of dessert at Thanksgiving dinner yesterday.”

Monty raised his hands helplessly. “There was cranberry sauce..?”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “_Doesn’t. Count._ It was fucking Thanksgiving. Everyone knows holidays are legally exempt from diets. And everyone knows I wouldn’t even be ‘dieting’ if the PR staff wasn’t trying to make me.”

Monty’s mouth twisted in disdain. “I know it’s bullshit, Clarke, but I cook what I’m told.”

“I know, Monty. It’s okay.”

Monty pointed toward one of the freezers with a pastry brush. “There’s some frozen pie crust dough in that one. Just let it thaw while you’re making the filling.”

“Thank you! You’re a-”

“A saint, I know.” Monty smiled back at her. “Let me know if you can’t find what you need.”

Clarke looked back at Bellamy, who was still expressionless and keeping away from the action by leaning against a stainless steel counter in the corner. If he noticed her staring him down, he didn’t notice.

Clarke threw open one of the pantries and placed her hands on her hips, surveying. Making her decision, she pulled down cocoa powder, flour, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, and sugar from the shelves, slapping them down on a counter opposite Bellamy’s chosen sulking position. Once she’d fetched some eggs and butter, she set the pie crust out to thaw and got to work.

“What are you making?” Monty called out from a different pantry somewhere to Clarke’s left.

“Brownie pie,” Clarke answered, mixing her wet ingredients in a pyrex bowl.

“Not very Thanksgiving-y,” Monty’s disembodied voice replied.

“Pumpkin and sweet potato suck,” Clarke said in disgust, making a gagging sound for added effect.

“Fair enough,” Monty answered, his voice fainter as he moved deeper into the pantry.

“What about you, Bellamy? Yay or nay on pumpkin pie?” Clarke didn’t turn to look at him, her voice more confident than she felt.

A few seconds passed, and he made it clear he wasn’t going to answer.

Clarke gritted her teeth and began to measure out flour into a second bowl. A thought suddenly occurred to her - and incredibly childish, risky one - and she dug her hands into the flour before she could change her mind. Making sure her hands were absolutely coated, she turned toward Bellamy.

“I asked you a question, Agent Blake. Did you not hear me?” Clarke stepped forward, punctuating her question by lightly pushing her flour-covered hands against his chest.

Stunned, Bellamy looked down. Clarke was slightly taken aback at what she had done when she saw her handprints on his black button up, but she held her ground, keeping her gaze trained on him.

For the first time in weeks, something in his eyes flashed. “Are you a _child_?” He growled at her, shoving past her and away from the corner she’d trapped him in.

“Hey, Monty,” Bellamy called, his voice still rough. “Where’s the closest washroom?”

Monty emerged from the pantry, taking in the scene and suppressing a humorous smile. “Um, take a left out of here and it’s the fourth door on the left, but there’s plenty of sinks in here-”

Bellamy was gone before he could finish his sentence.

“-if you need one.” Monty looked askance at Clarke. “Clarke, what’s going on?”

“It’s fine. I’ll be right back,” Clarke called over her shoulder, already heading out into the hall.

Clarke held her breath as she pushed the door to the men’s room open. If this didn’t start a breakthrough, she didn’t think anything would.

Bellamy was scowling into the mirror, attacking the black fabric over his chest with a damp towel. When he heard the door open and looked up to see Clarke, his scowl deepened.

“You can’t be in here,” he said, his voice tense with deep annoyance.

“I actually can’t be anywhere without a bodyguard, so…” Clarke trailed off, clasping her hands together in front of her awkwardly.

Bellamy’s jaw clenched. Clarke stiffened at the sound of voices in the hallway outside, and turned to lock the door, satisfied with the metallic click it made.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m talking with you,” Clarke answered defiantly, stepping closer to him. “Since cornering you is the only way to make that happen now, apparently.” She briefly turned away to rinse the flour off her own hands.

“I don’t want to talk. Not to you, not to anyone.”

Clarke frowned. “That’s not healthy, Bellamy.”

“What it is is not your business, Clarke.” He folded his arms across his chest, despite the fact that his shirt still wasn’t flourless. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m your bodyguard, not your-”

“Not my friend, I get it,” Clarke interrupted, flushing at the sound of her voice wavering. She stepped even closer, staring up into his face. “But I thought we _were,_ Bellamy. What happened? Tell me what happened.” Clarke reached up to grasp his shoulder. “It matters to me.”

Bellamy shrugged off her hand. “Don’t bullshit me, Clarke,” he bit out, his voice still angry. “I don’t matter to anyone anymore. The world has made it abundantly clear that I’m supposed to just go through life by myself. Why would a princess in a palace like you give a fuck about what happens to someone who is literally supposed to be expendable when it comes to your life?”

Tears threatened to well in Clarke’s eyes as her jaw trembled in frustration. “Don’t you dare talk to me about feeling alone. You’ve seen how I live every day. For months! Tell me about all the times you see me hanging out with friends! With family that cares about me! Or did you not see how I basically follow the staff around just to have someone to talk to? Or how when my mother bothers to remember I exist, she just sees me as a liability? Or how I found out that even my _boyfriend_ only saw me as a side piece? Hell, I even deluded myself into thinking I was friends with my bodyguard,” Clarke furiously wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “You can say what you want about me, Blake, but don’t you _dare_ say I don’t understand what it’s like to feel alone!”

Clarke tried to inhale deeply to steady herself, but it still came out as a shaky breath. This wasn’t how she wanted this to go. Shaking her head, she tried again.

“What did Octavia say to you, Bellamy?”

He continued to stare her down, his eyes tense. She noticed a tremor in his jaw. His eyebrows drew together, and he broke their gaze.

“She-” his voice cracked into a shudder that he shakily tried to suck back in.

Clarke’s breath caught in her throat. She closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. To her surprise, he didn’t fight it. She felt his face bury into her neck, wetting the collar of her sweatshirt with tears. Her anger dissipating, she held him tighter, running her fingers through the hair at the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” she murmured against him, rocking them slightly.

“It’s not,” came his muffled reply. His breath rattled when he tried to continue. “She says it’s all my fault. That I’m dead to her.”

Clarke pulled away from him, her heart rate jumping around. She pulled his face down toward her, her palms resting on either side of his damp, freckled cheeks.

“It’s not your fault, Bellamy. Do you hear me?” Another tear ran down his face and toward his mouth. She wiped it away. “It was an accident. It’s not your fault.” He gazed back at her with lost, wet eyes. “It’s not your fault. Please try to believe that.”

She pulled him in to hug him again.

“Octavia is grieving. She’ll come around.”

She felt Bellamy shake his head against her. “She’s so stubborn, Clarke.” He sucked in another shaky breath. “I don’t know if she will.”

They were silent for a moment, holding each other.

“I don’t have anyone left,” Bellamy said in a dejected whisper, so low Clarke almost didn’t hear him.

She pulled back from him again, letting go of his shoulders and twining both of her hands into his.

“You have me, if you’ll take me,” Clarke said earnestly, timidly staring up at him. “I know I’m a pain in the ass, but I’m still here.”

Bellamy sniffed. “It’s not like you can get away from me if you wanted to.”

“I’ve never been friends with a bodyguard before, Bellamy. Whenever I actually have a choice, I do what I want. I don’t have many choices left in my own life -- but I want you here. And I care about you.”

Bellamy nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“As long as I’m around, you’ll have me.” Clarke squeezed his hand with one of hers before dropping it.

Bellamy swiped under his eyes with a little bit of embarrassment. He nodded before glancing away. “I’d say the same, but it holds less weight when I’m contractually obligated to fulfill my duties.”

Clarke made an effort not to let her face falter. She didn’t know if he was trying to play off his embarrassment, or if he really didn’t care about her beyond what he was employed to do. Pushing that feeling down deep to worry about later, she pasted a grin on her lips.

“You still have flour on your shirt, you know,” she said, grabbing another towel and dusting the last of it off his black shirt.

He shook his head ruefully, dusting himself off with his hands as well. Clearing his throat, he straightened his uniform.

“We should go,” he said. “You never finished baking your pie, and I’m starving.”

“Right,” Clarke nodded. “Pie for breakfast it is.”

Her heart was in her throat as he strode past her and out the door.


	5. Snow Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Christmas comes, our heroes go, and Clarke breaks Bellamy's heart in a way he never expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I just wanted to pop in and give some trigger warnings before you get any further. The story is going to be pretty dark from here on out, as originally noted in the rating and tags. This chapter will introduce the darker themes officially, so if any mention of self-harm or suicidal ideation makes you uncomfortable or triggers you, I strongly advise you to proceed with caution. Sorry if that's an issue, but I really think that Clarke has been in a bit of a dark headspace on the show for a season or two now that hasn't really been explored or acknowledged, and this entire AU story was somewhat inspired by that. Happy reading if you choose to continue!

* * *

Soon, Bellamy quit trying to reach his sister. He didn’t even have a number left to call, and he’d knocked on his sister’s door only to go unanswered so many times that he’d finally resorted to email, which eventually bounced back after a few weeks -- invalid address.

There’d been no obituary. He didn’t even know where the funeral had been held, much less if or when.

Octavia had clearly very much meant what she said. Bellamy struggled to hope that she’d ever forgive him when he could hardly forgive himself.

He tried not to think about it, shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind every morning when he got up, and every night when he lay down in bed.

This would be his first Christmas completely and entirely without family -- even during deployment, he’d at least gotten a present and a phone call.

Bellamy shook his head, trying to clear it as he strode into work. His radio crackled. “Agent Blake?”

“This is Agent Blake, just arriving. What’s up, Hector?”

“We’re in the entrance hall today. No need to go up to the Queen’s bedroom.”

“Roger that.” Bellamy changed his course, no longer taking the stairs up to the second floor.

“Bell-” Clarke interrupted herself as she glanced down the ladder at the staff bustling below her. “Agent Blake, what do you think about colored lights? Everyone else is saying they’re way too tacky for this hall, but I think they’re charming,” she said cheerfully, dusting her hands off.

“Please don’t let go of the ladder, miss,” a staff member called up to Clarke from below.

Clarke rolled her eyes, latching onto a ladder rung with one hand.

Bellamy suppressed a grin. The staffers were right -- the colored lights did look tacky in the entrance hall, all marble and velvet curtains and chandeliers.

“They do look tacky,” he admitted, walking to stand right next to the ladder, gripping it with one hand to keep it stable.

“What a boring opinion,” Clarke replied, adjusting a particularly colorful string of lights near the top of the tree. It had to be at least a ten-footer.

“I’ve got it from here, Hector,” Bellamy nodded at the other bodyguard, who smiled in thanks and pulled his radio from his back pocket.

“See you around, Blake,” he said, ambling off toward the stairs.

“Doesn’t the White House usually go with some kind of heavily-styled design theme for the holidays? Because this...isn’t.” Bellamy glanced up at Clarke as the ladder rocked gently in his hand.

“I got my mom to let me do it this year instead of having people brought in. To be honest, I don’t think she was actually listening to me when she said yes, but I’m definitely not going to double-check.”

Bellamy looked down, trying not to think of how Octavia used to climb up on his shoulders to decorate the tree when they were little.

He cleared his throat. “I hear we’re headed to a holiday dinner tomorrow night?”

Clarke groaned. “Yep. Another formal event full of yellow-bellied congressmen lying through their teeth about the importance of their working-class constituents while they dress their wives in $15,000 couture gowns that they’ll only wear once for this occasion. Such fun.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Bellamy grimaced. “I’m not exactly thrilled either. You know how I feel about suits.”

“Hey, you signed up for this job,” Clarke reminded him. “Will you hand me an ornament from that box right there?” She pointed toward a jumbled cardboard box about five feet from the tree skirt. It was full of completely mismatched baubles and handmade ornaments. Bellamy picked one up at random and examined it.

It was a small wreath made of puzzle pieces, glued together and painted green with little red dots. Pasted in the center of the wreath was a photo of Clarke, maybe 4 or 5 years old, smiling cheek-to-cheek with who Bellamy knew to be her father. Bellamy studied it a moment before cautiously handing it up.

Clarke reached down for it, biting her lip when she realized what it was. She turned her face from Bellamy for a minute, not saying anything.

“This one’s definitely going near the top,” she finally said in a strange voice, keeping her eyes trained on the tree.

“Keep handing them to me,” she said abruptly, reaching down and wiggling her fingers in his direction.

“On it,” Bellamy answered, crouching back down by the box to grab a handful of ornaments. “Who knew when I signed up for this job that I was actually just getting a great salary to be a verbal punching bag and assistant Christmas tree decorator,” he breathed heavily through his nose, almost a laugh.

“I mean, would you rather be jumping in front of bullets?”

Bellamy shook his head ruefully. “Nah, I’ve been shot at enough to last a lifetime.”

Clarke clicked her tongue. “I always forget you’re ex-military. You don’t even seem old enough to have served a full deployment.”

“Well...I definitely did.”

“I’m not doubting you, Mr. Youngest-Secret-Service-Member-in-History. How old are you, anyways? I feel weird that I don’t know that about you.”

Bellamy looked away, feeling a bit awkward about talking about himself. “Just turned twenty-three.”

Clarke frowned. “What do you mean, ‘just?’ When’s your birthday?”

Bellamy cleared his throat. “November 24th.”

Clarke gestured in annoyance with her free hand. “And you didn’t even say anything! I would have baked you a cake! You know I’ll take any excuse to do that.” Clarke suddenly remembered how things with Bellamy were around Thanksgiving and fell quiet. “Anyways, I’ll remember it next time.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, princess. I’m just your bodyguard.” Bellamy smirked up at her as he handed her another ornament.

Clarke clenched her jaw with frustration. “Then tell me about you! I’m bored and I want to know.”

“You’re always bored,” Bellamy shot back.

“Can you blame me?” Bellamy could not. Clarke tapped her chin, thinking. “We can do it right now. We can take turns asking a question every time I hang an ornament, and we both answer the question. I’ll go first.”

Bellamy sighed, silently handing her up a sparkly gold star, frowning as it shed all over his hands.

Clarke pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hm, first question. Let’s start with a hard one.” She hung the gold star on the tree, dusting the glitter off her hands and onto the top of Bellamy’s dark, curly head. “What’s your worst high school memory?”

Bellamy squinted at her in disapproval. “High school was a long time ago for me, Clarke. But uh...I guess it would probably be junior year in general. It’s the year my mom passed. I got into fights over it a lot and it was just generally a bad time.”

Clarke frowned. “Why would you get into fights about your mom passing?” Bellamy didn’t answer for a second, and Clarke stuttered a bit. “S-sorry, that was probably rude to ask.”

Bellamy stared aimlessly into the distance, not looking at anything in particular when he spoke. “There were rumors about her. Not the greatest ones. Stuff about sleeping with a man in the administration. Honestly, they were probably true. But I was seventeen and I’d just lost my mother and I didn’t want her memory to just be people jeering about how she fucked the assistant principal.”

Clarke was silent, unsure how to respond. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Yours makes mine feel stupid.”

“What’s yours, then?” Bellamy sniffed.

“Getting called to the principal’s office to find out my mother won the election. You probably remember -- it was so close, they weren’t sure of the results until the next morning.” Clarke reached down for another ornament. “I know it probably looks shitty to be upset about getting to move into a place like this, and I love that I get to do more charity work now, but at the time, it just felt kind of like my life was over.” Clarke wobbled a bit on the ladder before grabbing onto a rung. “Sometimes it still does,” she said quietly.

Bellamy could see Clarke’s mood start to shift downward, and he quickly reached down for another ornament -- this one a turtle made out of dried-out clay and wearing a santa hat.

“My turn then,” he said abruptly, scanning his brain for a question that wouldn’t upset one or both of them. “Got it. What did you want to be as a kid?”

A grin slowly worked its way back onto Clarke’s face. “I wanted to be Claude Monet.”

“You wanted to be an impressionist painter?” Bellamy thought back to how well her self-painted bedroom walls had actually turned out. “I could see that.”

“No, I wanted to be Monet _specifically_. I wanted to live in France, to actually have his exact talent and paint his exact water lilies.”

Bellamy raised his eyebrows. “Understandable, I guess. Mine’s way less interesting.” Clarke tilted her head at him, prompting him to continue. “I wanted to be a history professor.”

Clarke smiled as she finally located a good spot on the tree for turtle-santa. “That’s one of the first things I would have guessed.”

“Brilliant, so I’m predictable.”

Clarke shrugged, grinning. Looking around below her, she twisted her lips. “I’m going to come down and look for the tree-topper, hold on.” She began to climb down, her foot tapping around in thin air in search of the next rung down. Suddenly, two strong hands wrapped gently around her sides, grasping the spots just where her waist began to curve into her hips. Her breath caught in surprise, and she prayed he didn’t notice. Though she normally would have snapped something about not needing help, she said nothing as she finished climbing down, noticing the sudden chill on the places he’d been touching as soon as he’d let go. He headed back over to the boxes, leaning to poke around in one like nothing had happened.

Clarke didn’t see the hand that curled into a fist at his side.

“Which box do you think it’s in?”

“Probably the one I’ll check last,” Clarke sighed, shaking her head outwardly and shaking herself inwardly. She opened a third cardboard box.

“So, what’s your _least_ favorite food?” She asked him, rifling through some badly wrinkled tinsel.

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Oh god, how can I even choose? I’m not a picky eater, but there are so many bad things. Iceberg lettuce, kombucha, overcooked meat, pineapple pizza…”

…

“Remember last time. Even if someone does say something that upsets you, don’t react. There is a time and place. Just try not to verbally respond if at all possible. If you feel the need to, reconsider. Think about how…”

Clarke stared straight ahead into the mirror, trying to tune out the behavioral coach that had been sent to her as she was getting ready for the holiday dinner. Not only had they picked her outfit for her like they had at the state dinner, but this time, they also sent a hair, makeup, and publicity coaching team as well. Her mother and the White House publicity staff weren’t leaving anything up to chance this time.

Clarke glanced down at her dress. Though it was just shy of matronly, with its cap-sleeves and floor-length skirt, she couldn’t deny that it was a step up from the awful black dress she’d had to wear to the state dinner. True, she’d requested a red dress for the sake of the holiday festivities, and though the publicity team had chosen a more refined, deep burgundy shade, the sheer upper half of the bodice and the gold flowers and vines issuing out from the high waistline were undeniably pretty. Though someone was currently applying a muted nude shade to her lip instead of a holiday red, and someone else was manipulating her wavy hair into a smooth, simple updo just like last time, Clarke held out hope that she wouldn’t look _quite_ so drab this time around.

Bellamy’s head poked around the sitting room door. His glance lingered for a few seconds before Clarke caught his gaze in the mirror, giving him a half-smile.

“Time to move,” he said to the room, watching the team bustling around Clarke begin to stash away their various heat tools, hairpins, and mascara wands.

His eyes rested back on Clarke. “You ready?”

She snorted. “No. Especially not if Christmas dinner is as bad as Thanksgiving.”

“We can order take-out after, if you like.”

Clarke held a finger to her lips. “Shh, don’t let the publicity team hear that.” She elbowed his arm lightly as she turned to head out the door.

“Some shawarma sounds excellent, though,” she whispered in his ear as she passed him by.

Bellamy fought down a grin.

…

Bellamy followed Clarke into the state dining room, double-checking to make sure his earpiece was secure. He was surprised to see that unlike the Russian state dinner, there were no individual tables -- just many long, white cloth-covered tables joined into a square outline, with a Christmas tree in the middle. The Christmas tree was lavish and decorated uniformly in golden ornaments and ribbon. _I guess Clarke didn’t get to decorate everything,_ Bellamy thought to himself with twisted lips. She looked back at him with a subtle eye-roll, as if she could hear his thoughts. He smirked back.

Clarke was directed by a formally-attired waiter to her seat. Bellamy noticed her hand clench tighter around the small clutch she was carrying as she realized she would be sitting next to her mother. Bellamy met her eyes for a split second before she took her seat. Clarke bounced back up almost immediately, as everyone had quickly stood to acknowledge the presence of the commander-in-chief.

“Happy holidays, everyone,” President Griffin announced, strolling in clad in a dark power suit, a small sprig of holly pinned to her lapel. The room full of congressmen and women and their spouses hummed with murmurs of response.

“Thank you all for so graciously joining me this evening,” the president began as everyone took their seats. “I’d like to congratulate you all on a successful year, and reiterate that…”

Bellamy tuned the platitudes of the president out, checking his watch for time and trying not to think of how long they might be stuck here tonight. He trained his eyes on Clarke, watching her as she kept her head bowed during her mother’s remarks. He wondered if they’d ever really gotten along -- had she ever been close with her mother? Would she ever forgive her for any of this?

Bellamy shook his head. It wasn’t any of his business.

As the food came out, beautifully plated and covered with silver domes, Bellamy noticed from his vantage point that Clarke’s plate had significantly less on it than everyone else’s. He clenched his jaw, remembering the tabloids Octavia had mentioned about her. He was definitely going to call in that take-out as soon as he could.

Even though Clarke had little to eat on her plate, she wasn’t getting to enjoy any of it. The senator seated next to her was relentlessly engaging her in conversation, hardly even giving her time to reply before he barreled on into whatever he was saying. Clarke’s fork was poised in anticipation over her chicken piccata, waiting for a break in conversation that just wasn’t happening. Bellamy noticed the set of her jaw growing more tense, and as the senator leaned sideways to speak to her again, Bellamy got a good enough look at his face to realize who it was.

Senator Collins. Finn’s father.

The man oozed slithery, snake-like charm, a politician to the core. Whatever he was saying made Clarke’s face turn red, her lips thinning into an angry, taut line. Bellamy couldn’t hear what was being said, and he couldn’t intervene. He prayed to god that Clarke would be able to restrain herself for her own sake.

Bellamy rocked on his heels. “How much longer until the sparrow can feasibly depart?” Bellamy asked into his headset.

Some static tickled at his ear before a response: “She should be free to go when the plates are removed. The president asked for her to be escorted out for the evening before the dessert course. Ten more minutes or so.”

Bellamy scoffed, but answered in the affirmative before settling back against the wall.

…

“I fucking wanted dessert,” Clarke grumbled, her cheeks still flushed as she walked in stride by Bellamy away from the dining room. “Though I’m not sure it would have been worth staying in there much longer. God, I’m _starving_,” she complained, stepping gingerly in heels she wasn’t used to.

“That makes two of us,” Bellamy answered. He leaned down closer to her ear. “I already ordered in from that shop near McPherson Square,” he whispered, a smile tugging at his lips. Clarke grinned up at him gratefully.

“Come on,” she nudged him with her elbow. “Let’s stop by the kitchens and get Monty to sneak us some of the dessert they’re holding hostage from me.”

As they arrived near the kitchen, two staff members blocked their path. “Sorry, Miss Griffin, White House orders to keep you out of the kitchen and other areas of the premises tonight. Security reasons, of course.”

Clarke’s mouth fell open. “Security reasons, my-”

“Clarke,” Bellamy interrupted. “Noted,” he confirmed in a cool voice to the staff, nodding curtly as he grabbed Clarke’s elbow and gently guided her back around.

She huffed audibly. “Whatever,” she muttered, frowning and marching silently back to her room.

Bellamy noticed that pins were slipping out of her hair, letting strands of it fall back down toward her shoulders. He was suddenly struck by the urge to run his fingers through it. He shoved the urge down deep, mentally shaking himself.

“Let me know when the food’s here,” Clarke called as she shut herself into her room.

Bellamy took up his position by the door, removing his headset and powering it down. He shouldn’t do it so often, but he wanted Clarke to have some privacy, and honestly, he wanted some of his own as well.

“Bellamy, can you help me with something for a second?” Clarke popped her head around a cracked-open door.

He nodded, heading into the room.

“Will you unzip me?” Clarke’s back was to him, and she held her hair aside, away from the long zipper down the back of her dress.

“I can’t get it,” she explained, casting a glance over her shoulder to him.

Bellamy swallowed. “Sure,” he answered, his voice lighter than he felt.

He stepped up behind her. “I don’t want to ruin it,” he said, unsure.

“Then don’t rip it like a caveman,” she laughed, shaking her head.

Bellamy grasped the fabric at the neck of the dress, his fingers brushing against her skin as he held it.

“Hold still,” he asked, tugging the zipper pull with his other hand. It was a tiny zipper, and he drew it down slowly, revealing more skin inch by inch. He stared at the smooth skin of her back, wanting to touch the freckles by her black bra clasp, to run his finger down her spine.

“There,” he said quietly, the zipper hitting the end of its track a few inches below her waist.

“Thank you,” Clarke said, clearing her throat slightly.

Bellamy blinked hard, biting his lip as he backed away.

“Uh, I’ll be out there. Food should be here soon.”

Clarke nodded, pulling more pins out of her hair as she looked in the mirror.

Bellamy shut the door. He inhaled as deeply as possible, trying not to wonder what her neck would have felt like under his lips.

…

“What was Senator Collins saying to you back there?” Bellamy asked, swirling some warm pita in tzatziki dip as they sat together on the floor, eagerly scarfing their late night feast.

Clarke winced internally. “Nothing important,” she replied around a mouthful of lamb. “Apparently he knows more about Finn’s extracurricular escapades than I expected him to.”

“I can’t imagine he said anything particularly nice,” Bellamy grumbled, gulping down some mint tea.

“No, nothing nice.” Clarke frowned. “I’d rather not dwell on it.” She tore off a chunk of pita with her teeth. “Are you working Christmas?”

Bellamy nodded. “Time-and-a-half pay. Plus, it’s not like I really have anything else to do.” He looked away. Clarke patted his knee briefly in sympathy.

“Well, I can’t promise it’ll be all merry and bright here, but it’ll be nice to have someone here who doesn’t only see me as a nuisance.”

“Who said I don’t see you as a nuisance?” Clarke punched his arm.

“Rude,” she spat, hoping he didn’t mean it. They both fell silent for a moment, chewing.

“He said he was glad his son quit fooling around with someone who’s ruining the president’s image,” Clarke said suddenly, not looking up.

Bellamy’s mind took a second to catch up. _Senator Collins._ “What a bastard. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.”

“I mean…” Clarke trailed off pensively. “He’s not wrong about it.”

“Clarke-”

“You don’t have to pretend, Bellamy. My mother may try to brand herself as a moderate, but she won the election in part by pandering to conservatives and their values, which the senator subscribes to. The image he wants the executive branch to portray doesn’t have room for a first daughter like me in it. Women are still so judged by their appearances in the world of politics, and while my mom might be able to pass into acceptability, I don’t. I’m not skinny. I’m not that attractive. I don’t dress professionally. To make things worse, I’m not straight and I’m progressive enough that most of the country doesn’t even try to understand me and just writes me off as a communist. I’m a political _nightmare_ for this entire administration.”

Bellamy tilted his head toward her. “I’m not going to patronize you with arguments here, even though I don’t agree with everything in that assessment. But Clarke…”

“Hm?”

Bellamy proceeded with caution, reaching into his pocket to double-check that his headset was still powered down. “Have you ever thought that Senator Collins might have had anything to do with, y’know, the bottle cap and all of that?” His voice had dropped to a near-whisper.

Clarke grimaced, her stomach dropping at the reminder. Of threats and of feeling no control over her own body.

“I highly doubt it. As much as he hates me, I can’t imagine him wanting my mom out of office. Remember, that message doesn’t target just me, but both of us. She panders enough to his party to make someone like him want to keep her around, _especially_ given that the next-in-line vice president is less conservative than she is.”

Bellamy shrugged. “Fair enough,” he conceded, his tone far more casual than he felt about the issue. Even though nothing suspicious had happened since the bar incident in England, Bellamy definitely wasn’t convinced that is was just a fluke.

Clarke pushed away her empty take-out box with a sigh. “Remember after the Russian state dinner, when you said “maybe,” to helping me sneak out to meet friends?”

Bellamy nodded cautiously.

“That’s not going to happen anymore, is it?”

Bellamy frowned. “It wouldn’t have been wise to try it before. Now...even I don’t feel like it would be okay. The person who drugged your drink is still out there, Clarke.”

Clarke groaned. “Ugh, I know, I _know_. I just feel…ugh.” Clarke pushed herself to her feet. “This time of year is so slow and everyone else is out spending time with friends and family and going out for snow days and drinking hot cocoa by the fire together, and I guess I just feel a severe lack of holiday cheer.” Clarke paced about the room, her bare feet silenced by the plush carpet.

“It hasn’t even snowed yet here this year, princess,” Bellamy’s voice drifted up from the floor below her, amused.

“You know what I mean,” Clarke said in exasperation, throwing up her hands. “At the risk of sounding cliché, I just want to, you know, _live_ a little.”

“Can Wells not come down for a visit?” Bellamy asked.

“I didn’t even ask. He actually likes his family and it seemed rude to drag him down all the way from New York during Christmas.”

“Well...is your mom dead set on staying here for Christmas?”

Clarke frowned. “Yeah. We don’t really have much family close enough to welcome the intrusion of a secret service horde along with us, and even so, my mom wouldn’t want to do that anyway. I think she prefers to work no matter what time of year it is.”

Bellamy was quiet for a moment. Clarke finally stopped pacing, standing next to him.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, wrapping a hand around her bare ankle to stop her from pacing away. Clarke went still, gazing down at him. “Do you guys ever…” Bellamy trailed off, shaking his head and letting go of her ankle.

“Do we ever what?” Clarke crossed her arms against her chest and squatted down next to him.

“Never mind,” Bellamy said, waving her off. “It’s nothing.”

Clarke eyed him suspiciously. “If you say so,” she said skeptically, lowering her backside down to the floor beside him.

Bellamy stood up almost as soon as she’d sat down. “I should get going,” he said, stretching out his stiff back slightly. “My shift’s about up.”

Clarke looked away. Her chest felt heavy with the thought that she was always just going to be a shift to him. Even so, the ghost of the touch of Bellamy’s slightly callused hand still tingled around her ankle.

“See you tomorrow? Christmas eve?”

“See you tomorrow,” he nodded, his tone somewhat distracted as he headed out the door.

Clarke stared blankly at her handpainted walls, grasping feebly for the energy to lift herself up off the floor and get ready for bed.

It was hard to keep going some days when she felt useless, alone, and trapped in a cage.

…

“I think this is very doable and would be good for the morale of the first daughter,” Bellamy stated solemnly. He’d stopped by the head of security’s office on the ground floor before he went home. Clarke’s talk of snow days had given him an idea, but he didn’t want to mention it to her until he could get some - admittedly last minute - approval.

“I’m not responsible for the morale of the first daughter,” the officer replied, her voice clipped and flat.

Bellamy’s lips turned down at the corners. “Then let this be my project. Protocol dictates that I can manage it alone if she and her friends stay in one contained building for the duration of the stay, and then we’ll only need two gate guards to man the entrances to the park. It’ll only be for a couple of days, and I asked one of the chefs to accompany us. He said provisions could be easily gathered up for such a short trip and such a small number of people.”

The security head narrowed her eyes at him.

“I was already scheduled to work the holiday anyways.” Bellamy held his ground, staring right back.

The officer shrugged her shoulders. “Fine,” she conceded, picking up a radio. “Let me run it by the president and her personnel. Who is included in this excursion again -- and have they been previously vetted?”

Bellamy nodded. “Chef Green, his partner Harper, Wells Jaha, Miss Griffin and myself. I assume you can select the two perimeter guards yourself.”

“Correct,” the officer nodded, waving him away as she began to radio the message.

Bellamy held his breath as he sent a text off to Wells. He hadn’t actually asked him yet. Monty and Harper were easy, as Monty was going to be working through the holiday anyway, and he’d jumped at the chance for a way to include Harper.

How’d you like to make Clarke’s Christmas eve a little brighter this year?

Bellamy’s thumb twirled around nervously for a moment before he hit send.

“Agent Blake,” the security officer called him back to her desk. “Permission granted. The motorcade departs at 1300 hours tomorrow.”

Bellamy fought down a grin as he nodded. “Thank you, chief.”

She nodded dismissively. “See you back in three days, Blake. Happy holidays.”

Bellamy felt the phone in his hand vibrate.

Just tell me where and when.

Bellamy sighed with relief. A last minute thought occurred to him, and he popped his head back into the security office, clearing his throat.

“One last thing,” he asked. “Can we keep this a secret from the sparrow? I’d like it to be a surprise.”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “I suppose,” she offered indifferently, immediately glancing back down to some paperwork.

“Thanks,” Bellamy nodded gratefully, already turning to head home and pack a bag.

…

Bellamy turned up the next morning, overnight bag in hand. He opened the door to Clarke’s room to find it empty.

“Clarke?” he called, setting his bag down inside the door.

No reply.

“Can I get a location on the sparrow?” Bellamy called into his radio.

“Third floor promenade,” Hector answered into his ear. “Facing south-side.”

“Roger,” Bellamy answered, heading toward the stairs.

Bellamy wound his way through the empty solarium room and opened the door to the chilly promenade balcony. Hector, sunglasses on despite the dreary day, nodded at him, tapping out for the day. “Happy holidays, Blake,” he called over his shoulder.

Bellamy stepped forward, following the curve of the balcony. The balustrade was too high for the average person to see over, but it did little to block out the cold wind whipping through the thick white railing.

He found her clutching two rails, her head resting against one of the sides. She was wearing a lumpy, woolly sweater and yoga pants, and her loose waves rippled in the wind like silver-gold ribbons. Her shoulders were slumped slightly as she stood motionless against the banister.

“Clarke,” he called gently, his voice getting lost on the wind. She couldn’t hear him.

He moved closer, reaching out a hand to lightly brush her shoulder. She started violently, reeling around with wide eyes and arms clutched tightly against her.

“Bellamy. Jesus,” She exclaimed, rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms for warmth.

“Sorry. You couldn’t hear me over the wind,” he explained, shrugging out of his black coat.

“You don’t have to do that,” she nodded toward his coat, shivering.

“I’m not that cold,” he lied, draping it over her shoulders. Despite her protests, she reached up to push her arms into the thick, overly-long sleeves.

“What are you doing up here?” Bellamy willed himself not to shiver in the absence of his coat.

“Watching people go by,” Clarke replied, turning to stare back toward the lawn and the street beyond it.

Bellamy’s heart felt a little heavier as he watched her stick her face between the railings, almost as if they were prison bars. Her shoulders slowly drooped down again as she wrapped a hand around the rail. He cheered up slightly at the thought of telling her the news.

“So, are you ready for this afternoon?” Bellamy asked, keeping his voice neutral.

“A day full of sitting around in the same room I always sit around in, trying to distract myself from my pathetic existence once again with another book? I’m thrilled.” Clarke’s voice was wry, and she didn’t turn to look at him as she spoke.

“Too bad that’s not what we’re doing then,” he spoke up, shoving his hands into his pockets for warmth.

Clarke spun around. “What do you mean?” She narrowed her eyes. “What _are_ we doing?”

“Heading north for a snow day,” Bellamy offered, a little tentatively. “That is, if you want. I got them to open up Camp David for you for a few days, and Monty and Harper and Wells have said they’re coming, so-”

Bellamy was cut off as Clarke barreled into him, throwing her arms around his neck. Her chest slammed into his and he staggered back a bit, wrapping his arms around her ribcage and rocking them slightly. Bellamy closed his eyes as her body heat warmed him, leaning his chin down against her shoulder. His breath caught in his throat as he felt her lips brush against his cheek, sending shivers down his spine.

Clarke’s eyes were full as she pulled away from him, keeping her hands on his shoulders.

“I don’t think I have to explain to you how much this means to me,” she rasped, biting on her bottom lip. “Thank you, Bellamy.”

“No need to thank me,” he replied, his voice a low rumble.

“Yes, there is,” Clarke insisted. “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. I don’t think Hector would volunteer to keep you out of trouble in the woods during Christmas,” Bellamy chuckled.

“Oh man, do you think there are bears up there? I love bears, they have such cute little ears and noses-”

“Good god, you are gonna be trouble,” Bellamy shook his head. “Have you ever seen the claws on a bear? You’re insane.”

“What a wild way to go out, though,” Clarke piped up, crossing her arms against the wind.

Bellamy frowned at her slightly off-color comment. “I don’t think that’s-”

“Come on, I’ve gotta go pack,” Clarke interrupted him, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him away from the balustrade and toward the door.

…

Bellamy lounged in an armchair as Clarke went back and forth from an open suitcase on her bed, dumping in sweaters and leggings and socks and bottles of conditioner. Bellamy cocked his head to one side when he saw her drop a bright turquoise swimsuit set onto the pile.

“Uh, Clarke, there’s currently about 8 inches of snow on the ground up there. Why are you packing a bathing suit?”

Clarke furrowed her brow at him. Clearly he didn’t do much research.

“No one told you? There’s a super-heated pool there. Warm enough to swim in during winter.” She smirked at him. “Let me guess, you didn’t bring a suit?”

Bellamy shook his head. “There was no _logical_ reason for me to. The average person doesn’t swim when it’s snowing outside, and I’m no Russian Czar,” he shrugged. “It’s for the best anyways. Kind of hard to do my job properly from a swimming pool.”

“Suit yourself,” Clarke answered, pushing her disappointment deep down where she didn’t have to think about it.

Bellamy gave her a dirty look. “If that was your attempt at making a pun, I give it a solid two out of ten. Awful.”

Clarke disappeared back into her closet for some pajamas. She needed to maintain her cool in front of Bellamy. Before he’d come up to the promenade, her mind had been wandering in dark places, wishing for different things. Trying to think of ways to wake herself from this endless cycle of tedium and imprisonment. Thinking of destructive things she wanted to do. Thinking of destructive things she’d already done.

When Bellamy told her the news about this trip, she’d almost cried. She’d buried her feelings in a hug instead, embarrassed at how much Bellamy had already seen her at her worst. He was the only person right now trying to give her some kind of happiness, and she didn’t want him to think she was ungrateful. She didn’t want to drag him down with her.

He was going through enough already.

She prayed that the swimsuit she packed would cover her up and stop others from seeing what she’d done to her hips.

She grabbed two sets of pajamas from her shelf and gave herself a mental jolt, pasting a faint smile on her face.

“This is everything!” She announced, tossing the pajamas in and zipping her bag. “When do we leave?”

Bellamy checked his watch. “In 3 hours,” he answered wryly.

Clarke fell backwards onto her comforter in frustration, growling as she landed.

…

Bellamy and Clarke rode in the back of a separate SUV in the motorcade. Monty and Harper, who didn’t fall under secret service protection, were being escorted in a separate vehicle, and Wells was coming down from New York to meet them there. There were two bench seats that faced each other, like a train car, and Clarke sat across from Bellamy, frowning down at her laptop.

“This hotspot is garbage,” Clarke grumbled, tapping furiously on the touchpad.

“It doesn’t help that we’ve slowly started to approach maximum boondocks territory,” Bellamy offered.

At this, Clarke glanced out the window. Snow-covered trees and patches of grass passed them by, silent and motionless in comparison to the speed of the motorcade. She leaned in closer to the window, slowly closing her laptop.

“It’s beautiful out here,” she murmured, captivated. Bellamy watched her face relax, the closest to serenity he’d seen her in a while. A faint smile pulled at his lips as he watched her breathe onto the glass, fogging it up so she could draw a christmas tree in the condensation.

“What were you working on?” Bellamy asked, nodding toward her closed laptop.

She ripped her eyes from the glass. “Oh, I was just checking on some last minute things for the New Year’s Charity Ball. It’s only a week away and I was making sure all of the kids who RSVP’d had something nice to wear.” She lifted her fleece legging-clad legs and crossed them at the ankles on the empty seat next to him. “It’s fine, Wells can help me with it when he gets here.”

Bellamy rested a hand on top of her ankle. “It’s gonna be great,” he reassured. She smiled at him, her eyes drifting back toward the white landscape outside.

Bellamy wasn’t just saying that to be nice. He’d seen the planning that Clarke had put into it, heard the intensive video chat sessions between her and Wells to make sure everything went off without a hitch, and to make sure that all the money raised was actually going where it ought to go. Clarke had proved to be a wildly effective organizer, and Bellamy had seen her talk people into meeting the event’s needs just through her own sheer force of will.

“I won’t be expected to dance at this event, will I? Because I definitely can’t dance,” Bellamy half-joked.

Clarke rolled her eyes. “You’re secret service. Of course not.” She paused. “I’m not even sure I’ll be allowed to.”

“It’s your ball, princess. You should do what you want.”

Clarke turned away from him. “And when have I ever been allowed to do that?”

The car fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke spoke up. “I know I sound like a brat. I’m not gonna make excuses for myself.”

Bellamy shook his head. “Hey, it’s okay.” She scowled out the window. “Clarke, look at me.”

Her eyes met his.

Bellamy cleared his throat. “Not many people could live the life you live.” Clarke bit her lip, but said nothing. “You’re doing fine.”

Clarke shook her head slightly, giving him a rueful ghost of a smile.

They rode on in silence for a few more minutes.

“Thanks,” she finally said, quietly.

“We’re approaching the gate,” a tinny voice said through the headset in Bellamy’s ear.

“Hey,” Bellamy caught Clarke’s attention by tapping her ankle. “We’re here.”

The car slowed to a stop, crunching over snow-covered gravel. Bellamy popped the handle of the car door and swung it open.

“Stay here for a second while I chat with the gate guards,” Bellamy said before stepping down and into the snow. The air was definitely colder here, and it bit at his nose as he walked toward the gatehouse. As he trudged through snow, he noted that there was absolutely nothing in sight around them. No cabins, no driveways or roads, no mailboxes. Just white, thickly blanketed forest.

Bellamy felt reasonably confident that they would be safe here -- though the lack of fencing or perimeter protection other than patrolling guards made him determined to keep Clarke in his sight as much as possible.

“Here are the keys to the main lodge,” the guard dropped a cold set of keys into his hands without preamble. “Under no circumstances are you to give these keys to anyone else staying on property. Since the party is so small and the POTUS is not in attendance, it’s been decided you will be sufficient by way of servicemen for the duration of the stay. There will be guards patrolling the perimeter of the camp 24/7; however, we expect you to practice utmost caution, and to keep watch over the sparrow at all possible times. Keep a radio on you; the headset signal will be too weak at this location, but the radios should work. Is all of this understood?”

“Understood,” Bellamy nodded, shoving the keys into his deep pocket, leaving his hand there for warmth.

“Mr. Jaha arrived approximately a half hour ago, and he’s been admitted to the main cabin. Report to us immediately if anything seems amiss.”

Bellamy nodded again.

“Move on through, then. The motorcade will drop you off, and return the day after Christmas to escort you all back.”

Bellamy headed back to the car, his head tucked down against the chilling wind.

“Wells is already here,” he announced to Clarke. She brightened up a bit, and Bellamy looked down at her bare hands. “You might want to put some gloves on,” he advised, rubbing his own hands together. “It’s bitter out there.” The car began to move again, taking them deeper into the forest.

“You’re such a baby,” she laughed.

“Excuse my body for having acclimated to the desert for the past 3 years,” he shot back, narrowing his eyes at her.

Bellamy clenched his jaw. You didn’t really acclimate to anything in the desert.

Not the heat.

Not the gunfire.

Not your own finger on the trigger.

“Bellamy?” Clarke’s voice broke his reverie. “Where did you just go?”

Moments of silence passed as he dragged his eyes to meet hers. “Kuwait,” he finally answered, his eyes latching on to the blue-gray of hers, watching them dance in the snowy light.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke answered, her voice soothing.

Bellamy jerked his gaze away. “I know you’re anti-military. I’m not asking for your approval. Or your sympathy. You don’t have to say anything. Hell, it’s not like it’s all even something I really believe in-”

“I may be against warmongering, Bellamy. But I’m not against you.” Clarke clutched at the handle near the car ceiling as the vehicle rocked heavily over the snow and gravel, her gaze still holding him. “I’m actually surprised that you took this job. After all that you went through in a deployment, a job around more guns and more threats doesn’t bother you?”

“I don’t have time to let it bother me,” Bellamy said sharply. As much as he hated the thought of going back over there, or even staying over here and engaging in any kind of combat, some things just had to be done. His sins weighed heavily on him sometimes, but he had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to let Clarke bear any of those sins with him. She had enough on her plate as it is. Besides, the likelihood that he’d ever even have to fire a weapon on this job was incredibly low.

Probably.

“You know,” he continued, surprising himself, “I enlisted after high school because it felt like I didn’t really have a choice? I couldn’t afford college, and minimum wage jobs wouldn’t support both me _and _my sister, so I just-”

The car ground to a halt. “Here,” the driver called in a muffled voice through the opaque privacy screen. Clarke and Bellamy looked away from each other.

“I’ll get the bags,” Bellamy offered, already stepping out of the car.

“No, I can get mine,” Clarke said from behind them, her boots hitting the snowy driveway with a soft crunch.

The afternoon sunlight struggled to peek through the trees as the group hiked around to the front door of the lodge.

“Kind of a 70s vibe,” Harper mused as Bellamy twisted the key in the lock.

Bellamy popped the heavy front door open, shuffling in and holding it open as the rest walked inside. “So, there’s three bedrooms currently open for visitors right now. Monty and Harper, you guys are sharing, of course. Wells has already taken one of his own. Every bedroom has its own bathroom, so no need to squabble over that.”

Clarke met Bellamy’s eyes briefly and he could see that she’d picked up on what he hadn’t said. The last bedroom was for both of them.

“Fuck, that’s a nice fireplace,” Monty pumped a fist in celebration at the site of the large, smooth stone fireplace that dominated the living room. “We’re gonna be cozier than we’ve ever been in our entire lives. I’m gonna make s’mores,” he added, his voice growing fainter as they disappeared into the sleeping corridor.

Bellamy slowly followed Clarke into the nearest open bedroom to the living area.

“Did you know there were twin beds?” Clarke asked Bellamy, her voice neutral as she plopped her overnight bag on the bed closest to the window.

“I did,” Bellamy confirmed, picking up her bag and moving it to the bed furthest from the window. She scowled. “Safer,” he explained.

“Well, at least you don’t snore.” Clarke shrugged, unwinding a scarf from her neck. “And don’t you dare use up all the hot water tonight.”

“Roger that, princess.”

Clarke threw a pillow at him.

…

“This front window is insane,” Wells announced, turning with a grin to look at Clarke.

“Wells,” she cried, running up to give him a quick hug. “I can’t believe you came,” she exclaimed, brushing hair out of her eyes.

“My folks don’t mind,” he reassured her, grinning. “They see me plenty enough, and they promised to save me some leftovers for when I get back.”

“Well, I hope they’re good leftovers to make up for this place. The kitchen here is a bit sparse on supplies. I’m pretty sure we’re having hotdogs tonight,” she grimaced.

“It’s all fine to me,” Wells put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey, don’t we need to check up on some of the RSVPs for next week? And confirm orders with catering?”

“You’re right. I was trying to get some of it done on the way here but it didn’t work out.”

The two of them sank down onto the couch behind the window, the room around them bathed in pale, snowy light. Clarke powered up her laptop as Wells pulled his from a briefcase at his feet.

“Did you get a dress for it?” Wells asked, sending off an email.

Clarke smiled faintly to herself. “I did,” she said. “First time I’ve gotten to pick out what I wear to an event in months.”

“How’d you score that?” Wells asked, impressed.

Clarke snorted. “My mom doesn’t like the idea of the event, so no press is allowed in. No paparazzi shots for tabloid fodder.”

Bellamy moseyed into the room, standing somewhat stiffly underneath all of his winter layers. “I’m gonna go check out the grounds,” he said, sniffing. “Shout if you need me.”

Clarke saluted him, her eyes following him as he stepped out onto the porch.

“He seems nice,” Wells said sincerely after a moment.

Clarke tilted her head. “I’m not sure if I’d say ‘nice,’ exactly,” she pondered. “Maybe...good.”

Wells stared at her. Clarke’s neck began to tingle. “What?”

Wells held her gaze for a moment more. “Nothing,” he finally replied, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “Nothing at all.”

“I can’t believe there’s a fucking outdoor pool here,” Harper’s voice rang out as she and Monty meandered their way to one of the other couches. “What even _is_ a super-heated pool?”

“Hell if I know,” Clarke answered, crossing her legs underneath her. “I’ve never been here.”

“I checked before you guys got here, and it’s definitely working,” Wells said. “It feels like a straight-up hot tub in there. Can’t imagine the contrast between the water and the outside air feels too great, though.”

“I’m still down to try,” Harper replied. She nudged Monty. “Pool? Tonight? You guys in?”

Everyone nodded, murmuring affirmative responses.

“Bellamy didn’t bring a suit,” Clarke said in mock-annoyance. “I guess he’ll just sit around and hold the towels for us.”

“It must be kind of weird for him, don’t you think?” Monty mused to no one in particular. “I mean, I’m an employee, but I agreed to come here, and I just work in the kitchen. Bellamy, like...well, it’s his job to watch your every move. Closer than a friend but not really a friend. Honestly, I hope it’s not like...uncomfortable for him or anything. I don’t want him to feel left out, anyway.”

Clarke’s brow furrowed. Before she could speak, Wells said, “I don’t think he minds. He put this whole thing together, after all.”

“That’s really sweet,” Harper commented, shoving a pretzel in her mouth from a bag that she seemed to have procured from her pocket.

Clarke felt her cheeks begin to flush, and she turned her head away. She knew at the end of the day it was Bellamy’s job to look after her -- but it wasn’t his job to make her happy, and here he was trying anyways. Abruptly, she pushed that thought away, reminding herself that this trip probably made _his_ Christmas better too, and that it was easier to keep in close quarters with someone who actually got along with you. It almost certainly wasn’t personal.

As if summoned by his name, Bellamy popped through the sliding door, holding up an old fashioned wooden sleigh.

“Who’s up for some sledding?”

…

“Oh my god!”

Shrieks filled the icy forest air as the group took turns on the two wooden sleighs, slipping dangerously fast down a snowy slope. Bellamy was almost too big for them, and he took a tumble off of his sleigh, rolling down the hill on his stomach and laughing all the way down. He and Wells stayed at the bottom of the slope, catching any rogue sledders before they slid into a tree. Clarke and Monty’s pale faces grew redder and redder with exertion and cold, and by the end, Harper was calling them airheads.

“Can we go inside and eat?” Clarke finally called, giving up. “I’m cold and hungry.”

“Okay, little match girl,” Wells teased, shouldering a sleigh and heading back up the hill.

“Who’s the baby now,” Bellamy smirked, elbowing her as they walked up side by side.

“Time for hotdogs!” Monty cheered, ripping off his hat and gloves once they all got inside.

“Please make them better than normal hotdogs,” Harper pleaded. “I believe in you, babe.” She patted his shoulder as she sneaked past him, peeling wet mittens off of her chafed hands.

“I’ll help, Monty,” Clarke offered with a quick smile, shaking her hair out.

Bellamy sank down into an armchair, pulling his radio from his back pocket as not to crush it.

He listened to the sound of Monty and Clarke bustling in the kitchen, to water boiling and cabinets opening.

“Needs more carbs,” Clarke’s voice came from the far side of the kitchen. “It’s cold out. I’ll make some fries, yeah?”

“And I’m making my special sauce. That’ll go fine,” Monty agreed. Bellamy could hear the sound of Clarke washing some potatoes, of her chopping them on a cutting board. He stood up, stepping over to the kitchen counter.

“Bold move,” he nodded at Clarke’s thinly sliced spuds. “I’ve never had homemade fries as good as the drive-thru.”

“Challenge accepted,” Clarke said without looking up from her chopping.

Bellamy was struck suddenly by the domesticity of the scene. No longer trapped in the cold, white grandeur of Pennsylvania Avenue, the three of them together in the lodge kitchen made for a cozy scene. Wells had procured some chopped firewood from a shed earlier, and the fireplace crackled across the room, casting a golden glow over the couches and worn carpet. Monty had thrown on an apron with “kiss the cook!” embroidered on it that had to be at least two decades old. Clarke’s brow furrowed in concentration over her knifework, and she hummed softly under her breath.

Bellamy almost felt like he had a family again.

…

“I can’t go swimming. I ate too many hotdogs. I’ll sink straight to the bottom.” Harper leaned back against the couch, patting her stomach sympathetically.

“I’ll rescue you,” Monty laughed. “Come on, you’ve gotta test out the ‘super-heated pool’ or whatever the fuck that means. Once in a lifetime chance!”

“It’s _so _cold out, though,” Wells groaned. “It’ll be wack as hell with Bellamy chilling on the deck in his _parka_ while we’re swimming. Insanity.”

“We can hang our towels in front of the fire while we swim, and Bellamy can toss them to us,” Clarke offered. “Anyways, I’m going to change.” She pushed off the cushion she’d been sitting on by the fireplace and headed back into the sleeping corridor. She heard the sound of the others following suit as she shut her bathroom door behind her.

Clarke tossed her two-piece on the bathroom counter as she stripped down, shivering at the slightly chilled air. The central heating didn’t reach the bedrooms as well as it should. The mirror in front of the sink only came low enough to reflect her from the ribcage up, and Clarke was glad for it.

She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to see the thin pink-and-red wounds that she’d slashed just inside her right hip bone. She already felt disgusted enough with herself about it.

As she tugged on her swimsuit bottoms, she was deeply annoyed with her past self for not buying a high-waisted pair last year back when she’d still had a life and could go out shopping whenever she wanted. As it was, her only pair only rose an inch or so above her hips. It covered what she wanted it to cover, but it didn’t leave much room for error at all.

Clarke stared stony-faced at her own reflection for a minute after tying up her bikini top. She was a little on the busty side, but thankfully she hadn’t grown any since she’d bought this top almost two years ago. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious at the amount of cleavage she had whenever she leaned down or rolled her arms in.

Clarke unlocked the bathroom door, walking out to grab the long, quilted coat that she’d left on her bedspread and pulling it on snugly over her swimsuit. Reaching down into her suitcase for a beach towel, she grabbed it and headed back into the living room.

“That pool better be as heated as they say it’ll be, or I’m going to have to explain to my dad that he won’t be getting any Jaha grandchildren,” Wells said warily, shrouding himself in a blanket.

“It’ll be fine,” Clarke laughed. “See, you can see how much steam is rising off of it. Basically a giant hot tub.” Even so, Clarke wished she’d had a larger, thicker beach towel as she hung it on a rack to warm by the fire for afterward.

Harper and Monty emerged wearing giant parkas, only their faces and bare calves showing. “The time is now,” Monty said solemnly, walking toward the sliding door and stepping out into the night.

“There are porch lights, ri-” Harper stopped mid-sentence as Clarke flicked on dim flood lights.

“Spooky,” Clarke murmured.

“Is there any booze?” Wells asked. “I couldn’t really sneak any onto the train at such short notice.

Monty and Harper’s eyes went round simultaneously, both of them stopping in their tracks.

“_We forgot the booze,_” they said in unison, looking stricken at Clarke, Bellamy, and Wells.

“I’m so sorry, you guys,” Monty moaned. “There’s one bottle of wine and some mulling spices for tomorrow. And that’s it.”

They all looked at each other in resignation.

“It’s fine,” Clarke assured them. “We should save that for Christmas day anyways. I’m good if you guys are,” she announced. Everyone else nodded in agreement.

“It’s fucking cold, guys. I’m gonna go for it.” Wells threw his blanket onto a deck chair and made a running jump. His splash sent steaming water everywhere, spattering the coats of those standing nearby.

“Fuck it,” Harper muttered, unzipping her coat and tossing it over Wells’s blanket. She dipped a toe gingerly in for a second, shivered, then plunged into the pool.

“Bombs away!” Monty shouted, running around to the deep end bare-chested and diving in.

“Down to you, princess,” a teasing voice came from behind Clarke.

She turned to Bellamy, half-grinning at the sight of his heavy coat and knit beanie. She unzipped her own coat and tossed it at him, careful to keep the front of her body facing away. “Have fun in the cold,” she smirked.

Clarke strode forward and took a leap. Her body froze in the whistling winter wind for a split second before she was immersed in hot salt water, her motions momentarily suspended. Forgetting herself, she opened her eyes under water. The sting of the salt caused a knee-jerk reaction, and she pushed herself to the surface.

“Holy _shit,_ it’s cold up here,” she exclaimed, her teeth immediately picking up a chatter.

“You get used to it,” Wells reassured her, pushing off under water to head toward her. “Well. Sort of.” He moved closer to one of the pool jets, which was shoving out hot water continuously. To Clarke’s left, Harper laughed, splashing water toward Monty.

Clarke’s wet hair felt like it was freezing. The juxtaposition of the icy air and the startlingly warm pool water unsettled her, and drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes and plunged under once more.

It was warm down here. Dark. Silent except for the hollow, ticking sound of bubbles near the surface.

It was a morbid sort of peace.

Clarke let herself sink further. The salt water stung at the cuts on her hips.

She welcomed it.

As the burn in her lungs swelled to a breaking point, she let herself rise to the surface, the cold air shocking her once more. When her eyes opened, they immediately met Bellamy’s. He’d clearly been watching the spot where she’d gone under. His jaw unclenched as she held his gaze. The sense of peace that she’d felt underwater lingered ever so slightly in her chest as his eyes stayed locked on hers.

“What the ever-loving _fuck_,” Harper screeched somewhere behind Clarke, breaking the moment. “It’s _snowing_.”

Clarke tilted her head backward, searching for it. Surely enough, tiny, icy white flakes had begun to fall from the inky sky above.

“Uh-uh,” Wells said, shaking his head. “Nope, that’s it. I’m out.” He made his way, submerged up to the chin, toward the pool stairs.

“Hold on,” Bellamy called. “Let me get the towels from the fireplace.”

“You’re a saint, Bellamy,” Monty called out as he disappeared inside.

Clarke grinned up at the sky, sticking her tongue out to catch the snowflakes. Like Wells, she sank lower into the pool, keeping her body warm below her chin. She felt tickles as the snowflakes grew larger, melting on her face. A laugh bubbled up in her chest.

“Clarke, you coming?” Bellamy’s low voice asked as he stood at the edge of the pool, holding one last towel.

Clarke snapped back to reality. Everyone else was bundled up, shivering and hurrying back inside.

She nodded at him, drifting back to the edge of the pool. She suddenly felt extremely conscious of herself, realizing that they were the last two people outside and she was about to be standing half-naked in front of a fully-clothed Bellamy.

She didn’t meet his eyes as she hoisted herself out of the pool, immediately hunching over at the bite of the freezing air.

“C’mere,” Bellamy motioned, holding out a warm beach towel, ready to wrap her in it. The hair on the back of Clarke’s neck stood up as she saw his eyes, failing at professionalism, skate and skim over the curves of her body. His gaze stopped dead about halfway down.

_Shit._ Clarke’s stomach plummeted to her toes, heat rising in her cheeks despite the bitter cold. She stole a quick glance downward, confirming her worst fears. The swimsuit bottom had bunched up, riding an inch or two down her hip.

She felt like she might be sick.

“Don’t look at me,” she snapped, embarrassed. Shaken, Bellamy’s eyes flitted away from her. A beat passed as both of them stood motionless. Finally, Bellamy’s boots shuffled a few feet toward Clarke, who was standing perfectly still, her arms crossed against her chest. Silently, he reached over her head, wrapping the towel snugly around her shoulders. She took the bunched-up edges from him, clutching it against her chest.

“Clarke,” he half-whispered, his low voice nearly cracking. The gentleness of the sound made Clarke bite down on her lip, fighting the urge for her eyes to well up.

“What?” She managed to get out, her voice quiet, low. Her skin crawled when she noticed she sounded like a cornered animal.

Bellamy reached a hand under the towel, resting it softly on her right hip, against her wet, bare skin.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice was shaded with pleading as his thumb brushed very near the raw skin to the inside of her hip bone, his touch so light on the soft skin that she could barely feel it.

He was trying not to hurt her. A sudden ache took hold in her chest.

Still, she jerked away.

“What a stupid thing to ask,” she growled, holding on to her anger. It was the easiest thing to feel right at that moment.

His brows raised, hurt and confusion swirling in his brown-black eyes.

“Is everything okay out there?” Wells’s voice cut like a knife between them. Both of them jumped, stepping away from each other.

“Yeah,” Clarke called back, infusing false casualness into her tone. “We’re all good.” She strode past Bellamy, through the sliding door past Wells too. She didn’t look back.

A sickening concoction of anger, embarrassment, and sadness bubbled in Clarke’s chest. She was furious with herself for not being careful enough. She was furious at him for looking, for seeing. She was sad at the rift this might cause. She was sad that she’d done it to herself in the first place. She was embarrassed that he knew about it.

And finally, she was embarrassed that the touch of his hand inside her hips made her feel - wildly inappropriately - a tight feeling deep in her abdomen that she hadn’t felt in quite some time.

She was disgusted with herself.

She shut the bedroom door and locked it.

…

Bellamy clasped his hands together to keep them from trembling as he sat in an overstuffed armchair by the fire. This was a nightmare.

He was scared. He was scared she would stay mad at him. He was scared about whatever it was that she was going through. He was scared that she wouldn’t stop.

And he was scared that he wouldn’t be able to help her.

He was ripped from his reverie as Monty strolled back into the living room.

“We’re gonna have s’mores,” he announced, digging through a reusable grocery sack that was sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Monty,” Bellamy said suddenly, surprising himself.

“Hm?” Monty asked, carrying over a box of graham crackers, a pack of Reese’s cups, a bag of marshmallows, and some coat hangers.

“Does Clarke ever talk to you much about, um...about how she’s doing?”

Monty frowned. “Not really.” He sat by the fire, slowly unbending one of the wire hangers into a long stick. “I don’t think she really has to, though. You’d have to be blind to see the answer to that question for her is well...not great.” He met Bellamy’s gaze, his mouth twisting sympathetically. “Why, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” Bellamy said quickly, shaking his head. “Just doing my job, is all.”

Monty tilted his head. “Mm, I’m not sure that’s actually in your job description,” he said lightly. “But,” Monty paused, straightening another piece of wire, “I’m glad that matters to you.”

Bellamy nodded, not adding anything else.

Wells strolled in, freshly showered and clad in a green-and-red flannel onesie. “Did no one else remember that it’s Christmas eve?” He rolled his eyes, gesturing to his pajamas.

“I think you’ve got the holiday spirit covered enough for all of us,” Monty replied, chuckling.

“Cute pj’s,” Clarke’s voice came from behind Wells. She emerged in gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, not a drop of festive embroidery to be seen. Her eyes intentionally avoided Bellamy’s, and his stomach twisted.

“Scrooges, the lot of you,” Wells condemned them as Harper emerged from the hallway, wearing purple pajama pants and a black fleece pullover.

“Ho, ho, ho,” she shot back, deadpan.

“Who wants to roast the first marshmallow?” Monty asked, brandishing a stretched out coat hanger with a marshmallow stabbed through the tip.

Wells snatched it out of his hand before anyone could speak. “I’m the oldest,” he said, twirling the wire between his hands.

“You’re literally not,” Monty retorted, jabbing a thumb in Bellamy’s direction.

Wells pouted. “Well, I’m the oldest one wearing Christmas pj’s.” He plopped down in front of the fire, getting a head start on his marshmallow as the others waited their turn by Monty.

Bellamy tried to catch Clarke’s eyes. Every time he looked, she was very determinedly staring into the fire, her knees tucked up to her chest.

The evening, though merry enough, passed excruciatingly slow.

Almost two hours later, everyone collectively decided on throwing in the towel. “It’s almost midnight,” Harper notified them. “It feels wrong to stay up past midnight on Christmas eve, somehow.”

“I’m pretty tired anyways,” Wells agreed. “Let’s call it a night, gang.”

The group waved goodnight to each other as they departed to their respective rooms. “Merry Christmas,” they called to each other, their voices echoing off the wood paneling on the walls.

Clarke silently shuffled into their shared room, her eyes still avoiding him.

He wasn’t going to make her talk if she didn’t want to.

Not tonight.

Before he could even head into the bathroom to brush his teeth, she’d crawled under the covers, silent except for the rustling of the bedspread.

Her back was to him when he came back five minutes later to crawl into his own.

…

Clarke was fully conscious, but she couldn’t move. It was like the drug in her drink all over again, but only restricting her motions, not her mind. Darkness closed in around her vision, and she tried to scream, but she couldn’t. She tried to move, but she couldn’t. There were people mulling about in the darkness - dozens of them - and it was as if she wasn’t even there. No one saw her. No one looked her way.

She tried again to push a scream up through her throat, but it was trapped by her paralyzed, motionless lips.

“Clarke.”

Clarke couldn’t see where the voice was coming from. She couldn’t even turn her head to look.

She tried to scream again. It still didn’t work.

“_Clarke._” A cool touch to her forehead jerked her awake, the nightmare falling away like a curtain. Clarke was startled by her own ability to move her muscles and bones.

“Just a dream,” the low, scratchy voice above her soothed. Clarke’s mind finally made the connection that it was Bellamy’s face hovering above her own, barely visible in the moonlight peeking in from the window across the room. His eyes searched hers, concern etched in his expression.

She tried to speak, but it caught in her throat, making a whimpering sound that only added heat to her already-reddened cheeks.

“You’re okay. You’re safe,” Bellamy reassured her, gently brushing back stringy hair from her damp forehead.

Some part of Clarke’s disoriented brain was embarrassed that he was touching her sweaty face, but she wasn’t coherent enough to voice anything.

Bellamy brushed the back of his fingers against her warm cheek.

“O used to have night terrors when she was little,” Bellamy suddenly spoke up, his voice still soft. Clarke watched the blue-white moonlight glance off his eyes, his silhouette. “She’d always come get in my bed, then take up all of the room and steal all of the blankets.” Bellamy’s head tilted down, sadness bleeding into his sleep-scratchy voice.

“I won’t do that,” Clarke finally spoke, her voice raw and whispery from trying to scream in her sleep.

“I would let you if it helped,” Bellamy said, the earnestness in his eyes catching her off-guard.

Still disoriented and gravitating toward the comfort he offered, Clarke reached up for his wrist and held it, tilting her overheated cheek into his slightly callused palm.

Bellamy sighed. “Clarke...are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Shh,” Clarke shook her head against his hand. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about it now. She wasn’t sure she ever would.

She felt Bellamy’s shoulders slump above her.

“I’m your bodyguard, Clarke. I didn’t think that would also include protecting you from yourself, but I will if it comes down to it.”

“Not part of your job description.” Clarke held her gaze toward the dated, wooden-paneled wall.

“Yeah, well that doesn’t really negate the fact that I care about what happens to you.”

Clarke’s heart thumped erratically against her ribcage as she carefully kept her gaze trained on the wall. She felt heat rise in her cheeks again, and she pulled away from his hand, not wanting him to feel it too.

A moment passed, and she felt the weight of him sitting on her mattress lift, heard the soft tap of his feet on the carpet as he walked back to his own bed.

A part of Clarke wondered what it would be like if she _did _climb into his bed and take up all the room and steal his blankets.

Instead, she pulled her own quilt closer to her chin.

She twisted her head around on the pillow to face him. She couldn’t tell in the darkness if his eyes were still open.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure if he heard her.

. . .

“Merry Christmas!” everyone’s voices chorused as they toasted each other, their mugs full of spicy mulled wine.

Though they’d only had cereal for Christmas breakfast and had built snowmen through lunchtime, Monty had managed to pull together a respectable Christmas dinner, cooking up a rustic beef stew and some hearty soda bread. Everyone was warm and happy, with full bellies, and the wine was strong enough that a few glasses would push everyone toward tipsy. Bellamy, ever the professional, was the only one who abstained.

He’d felt an inexplicably wild relief that morning when Clarke had met his eyes with simply caution instead of hostility. He had no idea how she’d react after the rollercoaster of last night, but mercifully, she’d behaved normally toward him -- even almost kind at times. He figured she was a bit embarrassed about the whole thing, and Bellamy understood. Maybe he was a little bit embarrassed, too.

Still, he didn’t want to close the door on that conversation. The sight of those welted, pink-and-red cuts made him ill at the thought of how they’d gotten there. He’d known she was unhappy about her situation, but he didn’t realize it had gotten bad enough for her to feel like hurting herself.

He was terrified at the thought of her doing it again. Of her hurting that badly again.

He just didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know _if _it could be fixed at all.

Bellamy wanted to shield her from anything that made her feel that way again. But realistically, he knew he couldn’t.

He didn’t want her to feel that alone again. All he could do was try not to let her.

“I’ll trade you,” Clarke’s voice interrupted his anxious train of thought. He looked over to see her holding out her own mug toward him.

“I’m not going to drink on the job, even if it’s just a sip,” Bellamy frowned, shaking his head at her.

“Very noble of you,” Clarke teased lightly. “...But actually, I just wanted some of your hot cocoa.”

An exasperated huff escaped Bellamy’s lips. “You could’ve just asked.” He held his own half-empty mug of hot chocolate out to her in resignation.

“Thank you,” she half-smiled before taking a hearty swig of his drink. “Ah,” she smacked her lips satisfactorily. “I missed this. I’m not allowed to have it in the house anymore.”

Bellamy shook his head to himself. He didn’t have any power on Clarke’s restricted meal plans, but he’d be damned if it didn’t make him angry every time he was reminded of it.

“Okay,” Wells piped up suddenly, rubbing his hands together. “So,” he continued, pulling a heavy, overstuffed binder from behind his back. “Who’s ready for a Christmas-themed Dungeons and Dragons campaign?”

“_Fuck _yes,” an already tipsy Monty exclaimed. “I’m a bard,” he called out, reaching for a player profile sheet. “_A coat of gold, a coat of red, a lion still has claws…_” Monty began to warble.

“Wrong fantasy, Monty,” Clarke laughed, draining her mug of wine.

“I wanna be a merfolk!” Harper chimed in, raising her own mug.

“You can’t be a merfolk if our campaign takes place entirely upon land,” Wells rolled his eyes.

“Fine, then, I’m halfling,” she amended.

“I’m always a gnome,” Clarke announced, gesturing for someone to pass her a sheet.

“What about you?” She turned to Bellamy suddenly. “There’s not that many of us, so you _have_ to play.”

Bellamy grimaced. He hadn’t played D&D since high school. He wouldn’t deny, however, that he’d definitely enjoyed it then.

He groaned. “You’re gonna have to help me with the rules, I’m a bit rusty,” he said to everyone, conceding. Bellamy dug around in his memory for an old character he used to play.

“Set me down as a minotaur, then,” he called out to Wells, who was DM-ing the campaign.

…

Four hours, a heist, a dungeon battle, and a Christmas tree theft later, everyone could barely keep their heads up, eyes heavy with sleep and wine.

“Goodnight, everyone,” Monty and Harper called over their shoulders, dragging themselves back to their room.

“’Night,” Wells replied, stuffing the map and the character sheets back into his binder.

“Thanks for the game, Wells, it was a good idea,” Clarke said tiredly, the edges of her words a bit fuzzy. “And you,” she turned to look at Bellamy, “you’re much more inventive than I thought you would be.”

“That’s the best thing anyone’s ever accused me of,” Bellamy mused, tilting his head.

“I’ll see you guys in the morning, then,” Wells nodded, turning to amble off to his own quarters.

Bellamy stood up slowly, wincing at the cracking sound his knees made.

“Do I have to move?” Clarke barely managed to get the words out around a massive yawn as she leaned back against her arms.

“Afraid so,” Bellamy answered apologetically as he tossed a few more logs on the fire for the night.

“Hnf,” Clarke mumbled, still not moving.

Bellamy reached his hand down to her.

She met his gaze for a moment before reaching up and grabbing his hand tightly, tugging on it as she pulled herself to her feet.

“Is it colder in here than normal to you?” She asked sleepily, chafing her arms with her hands for warmth.

“That’s why I added logs to the fire,” Bellamy answered.

They walked in silence back to their room.

“’M gonna brush my teeth,” Clarke informed him, shuffling into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, they were both tucked into their beds, huddled under the blankets as they fell immediately into sleep.

…

Clarke’s protesting body woke her up. Her nose felt like a block of ice as she tried to breathe through it, and her hands and feet were so cold that they physically hurt. As her eyes adjusted, she could see the fog of her breath in the room as she exhaled.

Wincing, she rolled over to face Bellamy, only to find him awake too, his eyes following her as he tried to pull the blankets up over his ears.

“I think the heat went out,” he said, his voice thick with sleep.

“It feels like it’s been out for hours,” Clarke answered, her jaw chattering involuntarily.

“It probably has.” Bellamy sighed, his breath clouding in the moonlight. “I think we need to move and sleep in front of the fireplace.”

“You’re right,” Clarke conceded. “Moving sounds horrible, though.”

A knock sounded at their door. “Are you guys awake?” Wells’s whisper-shout came from on the other side of the door. “I think the heat died.” Clarke watched Bellamy grimace as he yanked back his blankets and swung his feet to the floor. He swore at the bite of the frigid air.

“I think so too,” he replied to Wells as he opened the door. Wells stood there in his onesie, hopping quickly from one foot to another and bracing his arms against his chest.

“We should all go sleep in front of the fire if we don’t want to get hypothermia,” Bellamy advised. Wells nodded. “I’ll go get my blankets.” He disappeared back into the dark hallway.

Clarke still couldn’t find it in herself to move.

Bellamy frowned at her. “Just wrap yourself in the blankets and get up that way,” he instructed, yanking his own bedding from the mattress. “Don’t forget a pillow. The floor in there isn’t exactly soft.”

Clarke braced herself, gritting her teeth. She yanked the blankets off as quickly as possible. Her face felt stiff with cold as she frowned with effort, trying to wrap herself up. She stuck an arm out of the blankets t-rex-style, grabbing her pillow.

“Okay,” she exhaled. “Let’s go.”

Wells was already in the living room, huddled as close to the fire as was safe. Either Monty and Harper couldn’t sleep either, or he’d gone to fetch them, as they were laying blankets out pallet-style on the floor.

“Sleepover,” Harper yawned, trying to smile as Bellamy and Clarke padded into the room.

“Sleepover,” Clarke nodded, tugging her blankets even tighter around her shoulders.

They all laid down on the floor, trying to arrange themselves so that everyone was near enough to the fire for warmth. The flames cast a warm, golden glow over all of their tired forms, and something about it made Clarke smile despite the cold.

Bellamy had laid down at the end, nearest to the door. Ever the watchful bodyguard. Clarke sank down next to him, suddenly aware of how close everyone was to each other. Her hands still trembling a little bit, she spread her comforter onto the floor and dropped her pillow onto it, keeping the quilt wrapped around herself like a burrito.

By the time she’d settled in, Wells was already snoring. She heard nothing from Monty and Harper, who were on his other side.

She rolled away from Wells and onto her right side. And there his eyes were again, warm and quiet as his gaze fell on her.

Half-asleep, Clarke let herself have one tiny thing that she wanted. She scooted her body closer to his, which was turned toward her and just inches away. Her nose was a finger’s breadth from being tucked into his chest, and she could feel the heat radiating from the core of his body. Knuckles brushed featherlight over her hair as sleep pulled her under once more.


	6. The Cage Isn't Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the new year rings in, Clarke doesn't remember something, and Bellamy's job puts him to the ultimate test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As noted before, please proceed with caution if you're sensitive to references of self-harm or suicidal ideation. This goes for the majority of the remaining story, which has already been written.

* * *

“And please make sure the plant-based and gluten-free hors d’oeuvres options don’t get forgotten! I’d hate for someone to not have anything to eat.” Clarke hung up the phone, blowing out a long breath as she put a hand to her head.

Bellamy had mostly been a background observer to the controlled chaos that had been the entire morning. He’d watched Clarke, still in her pajamas, make about fifty calls to the venue, the caterers, the DJ, the sponsors, and even some of the attendees for the charity ball that would be happening that night. He’d watched her hair grow more and more mussed as she ran her fingers through it haphazardly, stressing over effort to make sure everything came together without a hitch. Her eyes looked a little wild as she glanced over her desk, looking for something else to verify for the evening.

“You okay?” Bellamy asked from his armchair, looking up from the paperback he’d hardly been able to focus on for hours now.

Clarke sighed. “Yeah. I’m just trying to make sure there’s zero room left for error tonight. This can’t fail or I might not get to continue my work.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sure I’m worried for nothing, though. It’s going to be good. Wells is going to be here in time, and he’s been organizing on his end too.”

Bellamy nodded.

He’d seen Clarke at work. She thought of everything. She was resourceful, she was efficient and she knew how to stand her ground. Bellamy had no doubt that the ball would be a success.

It wasn’t the fundraising or the hors d’oeuvres or the DJ that Bellamy was worried about.

Over 300 people were invited to this event. 300 strangers. 300 variables that he knew nothing about. Not to mention all of the staff attached to the event that wasn’t regular contracted White House staff.

Bellamy was glad Clarke had allowed security to just wear black button-ups and pants instead of the formal suit for tonight. It meant that reaching for his weapon wouldn’t be as difficult if he needed to.

“It’s t-minus two hours,” Clarke said, clicking her phone button to light up the screen. “We should head over to the venue.” She frowned. “But I don’t want to wear heels starting now. I’ll just get ready over there.” Bellamy watched as she pulled a bag from her closet and started tossing seemingly random items from her vanity into its depths. Throwing in a curling iron with one final look, she disappeared back into her closet, quickly emerging again with a long garment bag and a pair of silver heels.

Bellamy remembered that this time, Clarke had picked her own dress, and he wondered vaguely what was in that bag.

“You coming?” Clarke asked him over her shoulder, standing by the door.

…

Clarke couldn’t help but feel a little on edge as she sat in one of the hotel’s private powder rooms, smoothing her hair out with a curling iron.

So many people were going to be there. Clarke was never great at crowds even prior to the whole White House thing -- she’d always ended up on the fringes at parties and school events, talking to a few people and generally keeping a low profile. She preferred it that way. But now -- now she was wildly out of practice when it came to socializing on _top_ of her naturally reserved tendencies. All of her social interactions in the past year had been with a few friends at a time in a secluded setting, with staff, or in stilted conversations at political events her mother had forced her to attend.

She wasn’t totally sure she even knew how to have fun anymore.

Clarke shook herself internally. Having fun wasn’t even her mission tonight. She was there to oversee her event, to make sure it was running smoothly, to say a few words, and - according to the security team - keep to the edges of the room.

Still, it felt nice to get dressed up without having a team of PR personnel making all of the decisions for her.

Clarke finished off her hair and makeup with a swipe of mascara and a deep, carmine red lipstick. She was going for a classic hollywood look -- one that the PR team certainly would have deemed too campy. Luckily, no one was here to veto her tonight.

Clarke was somewhat grateful for tonight’s press ban as she shed her sweatshirt and bra and slipped into her dress. Caught somewhere between teal and ocean blue, the satin of her dress had a draped neckline, and its thin spaghetti straps plunged all the way down the open back of her dress. The skirt had a slit almost all the way up the thigh, and loose fabric trailed behind in a short train.

She knew it was perhaps a bit much, but for tonight, she just wanted to feel beautiful.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she thought that maybe her chest was too big for a neckline like the one she had on.

_Oh well,_ she thought to herself. No press would be there. It didn’t really matter.

She tugged her strappy silver heels onto her feet and headed for the door.

. . .

“Hey, a lot of people are already here, so you might want to-”

Clarke heard Bellamy’s voice before she’d even stepped out the door. She glanced around for him, finding him behind her, stationed against the doorframe.

She turned to catch him looking. Noticing him notice her. His eyes flicked downward for just a split second. _I was right_, she thought about the dress cut and her cup size.

A beat of silence passed between them, and Clarke felt heat creep up her neck.

“God, why I am nervous?” She laughed out loud anxiously. “I planned this. I just need to loosen up.”

Bellamy seemed to return to his normal, grouchy self. “It’s for a good cause. You’ll be fine,” he reassured her solemnly.

“Is anyone around?” Clarke asked Bellamy, knowing he’d been surveying the area.

“Not right now. Why?”

“Hold on.” Clarke bent over, reaching into the slit of her skirt. She felt around for a slim lace band on the leg that wasn’t exposed, grasping for the small plastic flask she’d filled with some bourbon that Monty had helped her sneak from the White House liquor cabinet.

“Uh-” Bellamy stuttered, looking as if he wasn’t sure if he should be watching this or not.

“_Clarke,_” he admonished when she finally produced the flask, looking behind her before swigging down about three shots’ worth of the whiskey.

Clarke wiped her lips carefully, making sure her lipstick stayed in place. “It’s a high school-age event, Bellamy. They’re not serving alcohol. And you know what? I’m anxious about it. Not only is this a bigger social event than I’ve been to in over a year, but I have to give a _speech_. A meaningful one! Don’t tell me you actually blame me for wanting a little liquid courage.” She bent down and replaced the half-empty flask to the garter under her dress, careful not to bend in a way that made her neckline gape right in his line of sight.

“Fine,” Bellamy grimaced. “Just don’t let anyone smell alcohol on your breath, or we’re both screwed. And pace yourself, please.”

“I know, I know,” Clarke retorted, exasperated. “I can be responsible, you know. This whole thing wouldn’t be happening tonight if I wasn’t capable of that.”

“I know you are,” Bellamy responded, his voice low and conciliatory. “It’s just a big crowd tonight and I want you to be careful, is all.”

“Well, luckily, I have you for that,” Clarke said wryly. She paused, studying his face in the warm lighting of the hallway. Something about it made his freckles pop over his golden skin. Clarke couldn’t help but think that it was really quite beautiful.

Her eyes lifted to his hair. She could tell he’d made some kind of effort to tame his dark curls, but whatever he’d tried hadn’t worked; they still flipped and twisted and laid every which way on his head.

“Your hair really _is_ a mess no matter what, isn’t it?” She asked softly, a smile curling on her lips as she reached up to push a stray lock out of his eyes.

He gazed back down at her, and her insides wavered.

“‘Chronic unkemptness,’ my mother called it,” Bellamy returned her smile with a faint one of his own.

“It’s time to head out there, princess,” Bellamy reminded her, nodding toward the door.

“It is,” Clarke nodded, steeling herself. The alcohol hadn’t kicked in at all yet, but she hoped it would before it was time to give her speech.

She felt the warm touch of Bellamy’s palm on the bare small of her back as they headed toward the ballroom, and Clarke’s nerves dialed down ever so slightly. True, Bellamy wasn’t helping her give the speech, but - in a way - they were in this thing together.

. . .

The sound of the ballroom hit Bellamy before it actually came into view. Bubblegum synth-pop blasted through the doors as the DJ played an 80s throwback tune, and as they stepped through the entrance, Bellamy couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at what Clarke and Wells had put together.

The room was both elegant and massive, but the lights had been dimmed, and the place was colored with blue, pink, and purple uplighting, giving it a swanky school dance vibe. There were long tables lining the walls stacked with trays of snacks and punch bowls full of some red concoction garnished with floating fruit. A classic disco ball circled overhead, and at least a couple hundred teens dressed up in gowns and tuxedos bopped and swayed in turn around the ballroom, corsages and all. A giant banner swathed the front of the room, screaming “HAPPY NEW YEAR’S EVE!” in giant gold letters. One of the multiple bathroom doors in the far corner had a signed taped over it that read “Gender-Neutral,” and in another corner was the silent auction that had been Clarke’s idea: poems and art made by some of the student guests for the donor guests to bid on. Clarke had explained that students got some compensation for their work, and that otherwise all of the proceeds were going into the shelter project that Clarke was partnering with another non-profit organization on.

His heart swelling, Bellamy looked down at Clarke. One of her hands was clenched around her neck as her eyes welled up a bit. “It all came together,” Clarke croaked, her face shining.

“That’s an understatement,” Bellamy agreed, rubbing a thumb up and down the back of her arm. “You should enjoy it,” he told her, hoping to heaven that she’d find joy tonight, too. She deserved it.

Clarke rocked back and forth a little bit, biting her lip. “I’m going to try and find Wells,” she announced, looking over at him for some kind of confirmation.

“I’ll be here,” Bellamy reassured her, stepping back toward the wall. “Come straight over if anything feels off, okay?”

Clarke nodded back at him, flashing him one last little smile before being swallowed up by the crowd.

. . .

“Happy New Year’s Eve!” Wells greeted her as he was stepping on the dance floor, all dressed up in a maroon velvet tux.

“You too,” Clarke smiled back, tugging them a little closer to the perimeter of the dance floor. She didn’t feel comfortable being right in the middle, and she knew security wasn’t too keen on her being alone in the middle of a crowd either.

“You know,” Wells began, taking her hand and twirling her in a little circle, “this went off even better than I was hoping for.”

“I know, right?” Clarke almost shouted back, trying to talk over the pounding EDM track the DJ was currently spinning. “It’s beautiful. They all look beautiful.”

“So do you,” Wells grinned. Clarke ducked her head. She couldn’t deny that it was nice to be told she looked nice, especially after a year of basically being called a sloppy whale by so many magazines and blogs.

Part of her wished that Bellamy had been the one to say it, but she knew that would have been unprofessional. And Bellamy -- he was rarely unprofessional.

She looked over to the wall for the man on her mind. He was standing like a statue - a beautifully carved statue - just like always. His eyes met hers, and he tilted his head in silent inquiry. She shot him a quick thumbs up, and he nodded, adjusting his earpiece.

“So,” Wells began, following Clarke’s gaze. “Are you going to kiss him at the end of the New Years’ countdown?”

Clarke’s head snapped back around, jostling her carefully styled curls. “What?” She hated that even she could hear the waver in her own voice.

“Clarke.” Wells put a hand to her bare shoulder. “I’ve known you for years. It’s pretty obvious to me that there’s something between you two.”

Clarke’s eyebrows drew together in consternation. “Nothing is going on between us. It’s not like that.”

Wells raised his brow skeptically.

“There isn’t. It’s hard _not_ to get to know someone who’s basically legally stalking you for most of your waking hours.”

Wells smirked. “So you’re good friends with Hector, too?”

Clarke scoffed. “Hector’s old enough to be my father, and we have nothing in common.”

“So you and Bellamy have a lot in common?”

Clarke felt caught. To be honest, she wasn’t sure that they did. Maybe some shared values, but otherwise...sometimes it felt like they were on two completely different planes of existence. But sometimes, it also felt like they were the only two people in her world. Like there was a line of communion shared between them, inexplicable yet unable to be broken.

Clarke shook her head. “Nothing is happening,” she reiterated, giving Wells a stern look. “It would break about 20 different sets of White House protocol _and_ probably get him fired.”

Wells grimaced. “That’s a bit rough, yeah.” Clarke realized she was still glaring at him, and tried to soften her gaze.

“I’m sorry, I’ll stop prying.” Wells held out his hand for a slower dance in reconciliation. Clarke sighed, taking it with a wry grin and trying not to trip on the short train of her dress.

“You ready for your speech?” Wells asked, his voice soft near her shoulder.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Clarke shrugged, the mere mention of it tying her stomach up in pretzel-knots.

“You’ll do great.” Wells laughed. “Do you remember when we were kids and we used to pretend we were our parents? Acting all serious and making mock-speeches about why cauliflower should be banned from all school cafeterias?” Clarke snorted. “You always did great with those. They impressed me.”

“That’s because no one was listening besides you and the peanut gallery of stuffed animals,” Clarke said derisively, thinking back with slight embarrassment at how she used to wave her arms and gesticulate just like she’d seen her mother and other congressmen and women do.

“I still think you’re gonna do good,” Wells said, his tone edged with sincerity. “This is your project and you care about it.” Wells checked his watch. “Plus, you kind of have to be ready, because you’re on in 5 minutes.”

Clarke, remembering that there were high school kids around her, resisted the urge to swear. She’d lost track of the time. Already, her palms began to sweat. The shots of whiskey hadn’t kicked in quite soon enough.

The volume of the music diminished as a slideshow began on stage, thanking the donors that had made the night possible.

Suddenly, Bellamy was behind them. Clarke almost jumped, startled at how quiet he could be.

“It’s time to move toward the stage,” he said, his low voice almost blending with the rumble of the room.

“How bad would it be if I just didn’t give the speech?” Clarke asked, trying not to panic.

“Bad,” Bellamy and Wells said in unison, both frowning at her.

“It’ll be over before you know it, seriously,” Wells reassured her, patting her shoulder. “Break a leg, Clarke. You’ve got this.”

Clarke gave Wells one final helpless glance as Bellamy began to usher her to the front of the room.

“I hate me for not having my shots earlier,” Clarke moaned, feeling beads of nervous sweat form on her forehead. She dabbed them away carefully with the back of her wrist.

Bellamy just shook his head at her.

Clarke and Bellamy stopped, stationed in darkness by the stairs to the left of the stage.

Someone on stage was introducing her. Everything around Clarke felt muted and blurry as she became acutely aware of her spiking heartbeat, feeling it pulse in her chest and her fingers and her ears.

“It’s now or never, princess,” Bellamy’s voice broke into her consciousness, and she was aware that the crowd was now clapping politely.

Clarke swallowed thickly.

Suddenly, she felt Bellamy’s hand push gently against the bare skin of her back, his fingers tipping her toward the stage.

She fought the urge to look back at him as she cautiously climbed the steps and stopped in front of the podium, trying hard not to squint into the spotlight.

Her heart thumped so hard, she thought she might be dying.

She gripped the podium fiercely to keep her hands from shaking.

“First of all-” she began, jolting when the mic screamed with high-pitched feedback. Clearing her throat, she pushed the mic away from her slightly.

“First of all, I’d like to just say that each and every one of you looks absolutely beautiful tonight,” Clarke got out, surprised when she was cut off by a cheer.

Tentatively, Clarke smiled.

“And, that I’m so happy to have you here.” Clarke paused, steadying her breath.

“I know that all of you here haven’t had an easy time of it. I know that a lot of you have experienced rejection, cruelty, and misunderstanding at so many points in your life. I know that there are people in this world that refuse to see how beautiful you all are, but I want to let you know that I do. That everyone else here does.” Clarke tried to swallow back tears as she stared out at all the young faces gazing up at her. The sight of those faces made her voice stronger.

“I hope that this dance was everything you wanted it to be. And I want all of you to know where the money’s going.” Clarke paused, gathering her thoughts.

“This fundraiser has given this organization, PATTH, enough funding to open an extended shelter and resource center here for any trans teen who might need it. We’re going to offer medical services and counseling. There will be warm beds and hot meals for you if you’re ever caught with nowhere else to go. There will be a library, a clothes closet, and an employment center. There will be people who love you just the way you are.”

Clarke paused again as another cheer, longer this time, rang throughout the ballroom.

“We know that sometimes, traveling to shelters is hard. That’s why we’re going to reimburse you for any fares or tickets you might have from trying to get to us.”

Clarke cleared her throat, ready for one last statement.

“Those of us here at PATTH will be opening the shelter as soon as possible. Please, take a business card from one of the back tables and reach out to us if you’re in need of help before then. And finally, don’t forget: you are beautiful, you are loved, and you are valid.”

The crowd roared. Clarke could see tears streaming down the faces of some of the kids closer to the stage.

She felt tears streaming from her own eyes as well.

With a nod, she headed for the stairs.

“Did I do okay?” Clarke asked Bellamy, who was waiting for her at the bottom.

“You did okay,” Bellamy said, a smile cracking across his face as he failed to downplay his answer.

It was one of the most beautiful smiles she’d ever seen.

This was too much at once. Clarke’s heart was fit to burst.

“Your makeup is definitely running, though,” Bellamy warned her, his smile lingering.

“_Shit_,” Clarke muttered quietly. “I’m gonna go back to the powder room.”

Bellamy strode along by her side as they skirted the edges of the room and back out into the warm light of the hallway.

“You can come in,” Clarke offered as she held open the powder room door after sticking her neck in to make sure it was empty. Shrugging, Bellamy followed her.

“This is so much nicer than the mens’ dressing room,” Bellamy frowned, eyeing the velvet-upholstered furniture in the sitting area.

Clarke sank onto the huge red circular lobby sofa in the middle of the sitting area, her shoulders slumping as she reached down for her hidden flask again. Unscrewing the cap, she downed the rest of its contents and tucked it back into its hiding spot.

Bellamy sat down next to her and pushed a button on his earpiece, temporarily powering it down.

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” He asked, one corner of his mouth turned down.

“Are you sure you should be doing _that_?” She echoed, nodding toward his earpiece.

Bellamy shrugged. “It’s fine. This place has been pretty heavily secured, and I’m armed. As usual.”

Clarke wiggled her head at him in mockery. “As usual,” she repeated, trying to mimic his voice. She could finally feel the effects of the first shots from earlier trickling into her veins.

He rolled his eyes at her in return. “Come here,” he murmured, learning toward her. He placed his hands on either side of her face, and Clarke’s breathing hitched. Her heart was back in her throat again as he leaned in, his eyes roving her face.

He stopped a few inches from her nose, and his thumbs swiped under her eyes, rubbing at the runny mascara.

“You look like a raccoon,” he mocked gently. “I’ve always been told nothing good comes from girls who look like raccoons.”

Clarke’s heart dropped back down into its usual place, stinging slightly with disappointment.

“Learning how to do makeup is hard in middle school when you’re unskilled and full of pent-up teen angst,” Clarke retorted, acutely aware of the way her skin moved against his hands as she talked. “Cut the raccoon girls a break.”

“There,” he announced, satisfied. “Much better.” He leaned away and up against the plush sofa back.

“That was a good speech,” he spoke up suddenly, his voice rough and low next to her.

“Thanks, I made it myself,” Clarke grinned. “In hindsight, I probably should have written it ahead of time and used a teleprompter, but that felt lame at the time, I guess.”

“We should head back out there,” Clarke said. Neither of them moved.

Sighing, she went to the mirror and gave a cursory glance at her appearance. Thanks to Bellamy, her eyes looked good as new. Or at least, good enough that she couldn’t be bothered to fix them. Frowning, she tugged the neckline of her dress up a little higher.

“All right.” Clarke ran a hand over the bodice of her dress to smooth it as she traipsed over to the door. “We really should go.”

Grumbling, Bellamy nodded, switching his earpiece back on and hauling himself toward the door.

…

Bellamy stood against the shadowy wall, staying out of the colorful uplighting as he watched Clarke laughing with some of the guests. She was giggling pretty hard, and Bellamy knew that the rest of the whiskey had finally kicked in.

She looked _so_ beautiful.

He wished he could tell her.

Nights like tonight made him wish that he’d met her somewhere else. In a different way, in a different time.

In a world where she wasn’t trapped in a cage and he wasn’t hired to make sure she stayed safely inside it.

The DJ slowed it down, and Bellamy suddenly found Clarke’s eyes on him. A small smile worked its way onto her lips as she began to walk toward him, one hand tugging the back of her dress so she wouldn’t trip on it.

Bellamy’s heart skipped a beat.

“Bellamy,” she said, her eyes wide and her gait tipsy. “Dance with me.”

Bellamy’s heart stopped skipping and sank to the floor.

“No.”

He hated himself as he watched Clarke’s face fall, redness creeping up her cheeks.

“It’s a bad idea. Clarke, you _know_ that would look bad.” He crossed his arms against his chest, no longer sure where to look.

“Ten seconds until midnight!” The DJ’s voice suddenly interrupted, booming throughout the ballroom. “If you’re planning on that New Year’s smooch, you better hurry up and find your partner!”

Bellamy’s neck prickled with discomfort as the two of them shifted their weight, not meeting each other’s eyes.

The crowd began to chant. “EIGHT! SEVEN! SIX!..”

Clarke turned to look out over the crowd.

“FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO!”

Suddenly, her eyes snapped back to Bellamy’s. The air around them crackled.

“ONE!” Cheers erupted from those not kissing someone else in the crowd. Buckets full of shiny, silver-and-gold confetti began to dump over the crowd.

Their eyes stayed locked on each other, a circle of silence surrounding them as the rest of the room whooped raucously. Both of them were perfectly still.

“I think I’ve been here long enough that I can go home now,” Clarke finally said, her voice more gravelly than usual.

Bellamy radioed in for confirmation.

The entire ride home was quiet.

…

Clarke dried her face off with a towel over her sink, happy to have it bare again.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Standing there, barefoot but still in her dress, with messy, half-curled hair, she thought she looked tired.

She _was _tired.

The alcohol in her body that had loosened her up earlier now just made her want to sleep.

If she was asleep, she could forget about the rollercoaster of an evening. She could forget about being rejected. She could forget how much she wanted something she couldn’t have. How _many_ things she wanted that she couldn’t have.

She headed out of the bathroom and toward her closet in search of her favorite flannel pajamas. It was winter, and the bad insulation of the old building made her shiver.

She was startled to find Bellamy leaned over in the armchair, his chin in his hand.

“Bellamy? I thought you’d gone home. Your shift is over, you know.”

“I know,” Bellamy answered quietly, not looking up.

“Then what are you still doing here?” Clarke asked tersely, still slightly embarrassed and more than ready for sleep.

“I wanted to apologize,” he replied suddenly, lifting his head up. His gaze found hers and stayed there as he walked toward her, his boots stopping inches from her bare toes.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Clarke muttered, dropping her eyes to the carpet past his shoulder.

“I just wanted you to know that…” Bellamy cleared his throat, seeming a little self-conscious. “I wanted you to know I said no because of how it would’ve looked. Not because I didn’t want to.”

Biting her lip, Clarke dragged her tired gaze back to his. She didn’t know what to say. She was _afraid_ of what she might say.

She felt his hand reach down and wrap around one of hers. “Let me make it up to you.”

He didn’t say it as a question, but she could still hear the tentative note in his voice. Confused, she tilted her head, questioning.

Bellamy let go of her hand and walked over to her bluetooth speaker, turning down the volume and pressing a button.

A quiet, somber chord warbled throughout the room.

Clarke’s eyes widened as she realized what he was doing. “Bellamy, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he said softly, his hand trailing down her arm and interlocking his fingers with hers, lifting them up in the air by their sides.

His arm snaked around her, his hand resting on the naked skin of her open back. Clarke shivered as he pulled them closer together.

He stopped, his eyes searching hers.

“Cold room,” she answered. And it was. That’s just not why she’d shivered.

As she’d shivered, the long thin strap of her gown had slipped down. Bellamy hooked a finger around it, slowly running his hand from the low back of her dress’s waistline all the way up to her shoulder as he tugged it back in place. His hand snaked back around her waist, and her pulse spiked erratically.

Giving in, she draped her arm over his, her hand resting on his broad shoulder.

She turned her face toward him, and found herself again only inches from his freckled nose.

The vocalist on the track finally began to sing.

“_Mama take this badge from me…_”

Clarke felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. She ripped her eyes away from Bellamy’s soft brown ones, hiding her face against his shoulder.

“_I can’t use it anymore,_”

“What is it?” Bellamy’s voice rumbled through his chest against hers. His thumb slowly rubbed circles in the small of her back.

“My dad sang this to me when I was little,” she said into his neck, her voice muffled.

“Very badly, but I still loved it.”

“Do you want me to change it?” His voice was still so soft.

“No, it’s good. I like it.”

Her heart felt like it was trying to jump out of her chest and into his. She hoped he couldn’t feel it.

“_It’s gettin’ dark, too dark to see,”_

Clarke let go of his hand and his shoulder, instead wrapping her arms tightly around his middle, clinging to him. He tucked his chin over her head.

“I feel like I’m knocking on heaven’s door,” Clarke whisper-sang along, her voice scratching in her throat.

Bellamy reached up, stroking the back of her head with his hand.

Clarke’s eyes drooped as her head rested against his chest.

He was so warm, so safe.

She was so tired.

“Clarke,” his voice jolted her, and she felt his arm tighten around her waist. The music was no longer playing.

“I think you dozed off,” he said, a laugh lying somewhere low in his voice.

“Clarke winced. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired,” she groaned, blinking hard.

“It’s been a long day. You should sleep.”

“Not in this,” Clarke said, glancing down at the rumpled dress she was still wearing.

“No, not in that,” Bellamy murmured, amused.

Clarke disappeared into her closet, shutting the door behind her for privacy. Some tiny, still-tipsy, rebellious part of her didn’t want to, but she still did.

Freshly clad in warm flannel, she padded back into her room.

The blankets on her bed were turned down, and Bellamy was gone.

…

“Feisty First Daughter Stumps for Trans Teens at High School Dance,” the headline of the newspaper that Clarke’s mom slapped down in front of her read.

“Did you do this just to spite me?” the president asked Clarke, her eyes narrowed up at her daughter from her desk.

The private study, adjacent to the Oval Office, was much smaller than the famous room next door. Clarke felt like she was suffocating.

“Not everything is about you, mom.” Clarke eyed the news article again, noting that the accompanying photo of her wasn’t even from the dance a few nights ago, but actually just an unflattering photo of her from several months back. “Besides, no press was even allowed at the event.”

“That didn’t stop one of the attendees from giving an interview to a well-researched reporter about it.”

Clarke frowned. “Well, I’m sorry you’re upset, but I’m not going to apologize for the fundraiser or the event.”

President Griffin put a hand to her head. “This will just cause trouble with part of my base,” she said tiredly, her eyes drifting past Clarke and toward the wall.

“Maybe they shouldn’t be so intolerant, then,” Clarke replied flatly. Her mother shot her a look.

She sighed deeply. “You know what, Clarke? Never mind. That’s not even the reason you’re being called in here.”

“Then what is?” Clarke folded her arms over her chest. She was so tired of this conversation, and it had barely begun.

“I’m giving a public speech next week for National Law Enforcement Appreciation Day. I’ve agreed to speak at a conference for it that’s being held downtown. You will be accompanying me.”

“No.” Clarke grimaced. “What an absolute waste of an official ‘appreciation day’. Let me know when it’s National Pancake Day or something and I’ll be there.”

“It’s not up for debate, Clarke.”

Clarke didn’t even resist the urge to roll her eyes. The event sounded like a nightmare, and she knew she’d be both dressed and instructed to remain silent by PR.

“Anything else?” Clarke asked, her voice all false politeness as she unfolded her arms.

Her mother studied her for a moment before glancing back down at the papers strewn across her desk. “That’s all. It’s next Wednesday. Plan accordingly.”

“As if I ever get to make plans,” Clarke snarked back, turning on her heel to leave. She tugged her oversized sweater around her, fending off the January draft.

She hoped Bellamy would be on duty by the time she got back to her room.

…

Bellamy’s stomach soured the closer he walked to Octavia’s apartment. He knew that the complete radio silence from her - not to mention the active attempts she’d made to avoid contact with him - should be a sign for him to let go, but he just couldn’t do that. She was his sister. She was the only other Blake left.

And he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t love his little sister.

The cold, damp wind bit at his cheeks, and he turned the wool collar of his dark coat up against the chill.

He was so terrified that this would be a waste of his morning off. Or - even worse - a waste of hope that this could still be mended.

He slipped into the building behind someone who was carrying up two very full paper sacks of groceries. Two men carrying moving boxes down the stairs lumbered toward him, and Bellamy flattened himself against the wall to let them pass.

As he reached the landing for his sister’s floor, his insides turned to lead. A small part of him, dreading Octavia’s stubbornness, wanted to turn back and try another day. Instead, he clenched his jaw and kept walking.

A few yards away from her door, Bellamy noticed that it was propped open. Another man emerged through the threshold, carrying another moving box.

It was his sister that was moving out.

A bubble of panic rose beneath his ribcage. He quickened his steps.

“O?”

Octavia was in the kitchen, wrapping silverware in a dish towel and lowering it into a small packing box.

She froze as she laid eyes on her brother, her shoulders tense.

“Get. _Out_.”

“We’re family, O. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But we still have each other, and I can’t let go of that. _We_ can’t let go of that.”

“I already have.”

Bellamy bit down on his lip, scared. He was afraid to let his fear show in his eyes.

“Where are you moving? Please tell me. Even just for emergency’s sake-”

“No.”

Bellamy gritted his teeth, still hovering back in the doorway. This couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t let it.

“You know I’m secret service, right? I could easily have someone track you down for me in _minutes_.”

Octavia’s eyes gleamed with anger. “And if you did that, you would be a shitty person. Fuck you, Bellamy.”

Bellamy tried to take a steadying breath. He didn’t want this to be the end.

“Octavia,” he pleaded, his tone soft. “We’re each other’s whole family now. Please don’t do this.”

Octavia glared at him silently for a moment. Her gaze hot steel, she walked slowly toward him, stopping a foot away from where he stood.

Like lightning, her arm snapped back, then shot forward as she punched him in the face. Bellamy reared backward, his left eye and cheekbone smarting, his vision spotted with black and purple blots.

He’d taught her how to do that years ago, when she’d asked him to teach her how to defend herself.

Covering one side of his face with his hand, his good eye tried to refocus, roving around in search of his sister’s face.

“You’re dead to me,” she growled in a low, lethal-sounding voice. She bent to pick up a box at her feet and used it to barrel through the doorway, pushing past him with unmistakable finality.

Bellamy felt like he might throw up.

Two blocks away from her apartment, as he walked in a frozen, mindless haze, he did throw up, leaning over some bushes planted near the sidewalk.

After about 20 minutes of walking in a complete zombie state, he finally had the sense to check his watch.

He was running half an hour late for work.

…

Clarke sat in Bellamy’s usual armchair, reading the same page of her history textbook over and over and not absorbing a single word of it. When her bedroom door finally creaked open, she tossed the book onto a side table, sighing with relief.

“Thank god. You’re almost an hour late, Bellamy, and I-” Clarke’s words died in her throat when she saw his face. One side of it was swollen, the skin shiny and purple in a half-moon shape under his eye.

“Oh my god,” Clarke gasped, frozen in place for a moment before she jumped out of the chair and hurried toward him. She shut the door quickly behind them and spun to face him, laying a palm gently against his swollen face. The skin under it was warm -- both from bruising and from windburn, from what she could tell.

“Sit down,” she ordered, her mind racing. She half-expected him to make a snide remark and remain standing, but he didn’t. He silently went to his chair, dropping himself into it unceremoniously.

“I’ll be right back,” she called, rushing into her study. She reached into the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of blue gatorade that she hadn’t opened yet, ripping off the plastic label and wiping the condensation off of the bottle with the ratty cuff of her sweatshirt sleeve.

“This is all I have, so it’ll have to do for now,” Clarke announced, squatting down next to his armchair. “Press it under your eye, okay?”

Bellamy did as she asked with no comment, protest or otherwise.

Clarke was both afraid of what happened to Bellamy and dying to ask. Tired of squatting, she sat back on her heels, leaning an elbow on Bellamy’s knee and resting her chin in her hand.

“What happened, Bellamy?” She tried to flatten the anxiety out of her voice, aiming for a calm tone. It didn’t really work.

His eyes were glassed over, focused on nothing in particular. He didn’t look down at her when he finally spoke.

“I tried to talk to Octavia.”

Anger bubbled up in Clarke’s chest. “Your _sister_ did that? What the hell, Bellamy?”

“She only did what I taught her to do years ago,” Bellamy said wryly, his eyes still unfocused. “A mean right hook.”

Clarke had never met Octavia -- and now she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to.

“I guess things didn’t go like you hoped, then,” she finally said.

“Not at all,” he replied, a humorless laugh edging his words. “She’s moving away, Clarke. And she won’t tell me where she’s going.”

Clarke could hear the pain laced through his voice, the catch in his throat as he spoke. She wanted to hold him -- hold him together so that he wouldn’t have to pick up the pieces. Instead, she lowered her head against his knee, resting there so she didn’t have to see the hurt on his face.

“I mean...you know a lot of people in security, Bellamy. You could probably have someone track her down in no time.”

Clarke felt his hand come to rest on the top of her head, brushing her unkempt waves lightly. Her eyes drifted shut involuntarily.

“The thing is,” he finally spoke up, his voice all gravel, “the thing is - something I realized on the way here - what’s the point of looking for her if she’ll still hate me once she’s found?”

Clarke’s heart gave a sickening pound in her chest. She could give him a compress to fix his eye, she could be a listening ear to his pent-up words, but she couldn’t fix the raw pain she heard in his voice. She couldn’t fix things between him and his sister.

She knew what it was like to lose family, and it made her sick to know that Bellamy had to feel that way even when Octavia was still breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed against his knee, hating how meaningless those words felt leaving her lips.

“I know,” Bellamy replied softly, his hand running down her hair once more.

Clarke knew if she didn’t move soon, she’d stay like this with him for far too long. She pushed herself up off the floor, bracing one hand against the armrest as she leaned down toward his face, gently moving the bottle of gatorade he held up aside.

“The swelling has gone down, at least,” she informed him, her eyes roving his face for any other injuries before stopping to hold his gaze.

His deep brown eyes stared baldly back at her, dull and aching and heartbroken. She swallowed thickly as she felt his breath fall across her lips. They were so close that their noses almost touched, and Clarke’s heartbeat lurched as she leaned back a little.

Now wasn’t the time.

Technically, _never_ was the time, but she didn’t want to think about that right now.

“Well, hopefully that bruise will be mostly gone by next week, or you might cause a stir at my mom’s speech,” Clarke said lightly, changing the subject for both of their sakes.

“Speech?” Bellamy questioned, trying to raise an eyebrow and wincing.

“She’s agreed to give a speech at a conference for ‘Law Enforcement Appreciation Day’ or some bullshit like that. Apparently I’m required to attend to keep up the ‘right image’ and curry favor with her base.”

Bellamy frowned in distaste.

“My sentiments exactly,” Clarke agreed, perching on the edge of the armrest. “I’m sure I’ll be back in a dark-neutral-colored pantsuit in no time. Suit for you, as well,” she smirked.

Bellamy groaned.

…

“I’m going to a party tonight,” Clarke announced, bracing herself for Bellamy’s reaction as his head snapped up from his book.

“I wasn’t briefed on any outings,” Bellamy frowned, his eye now faded to a dull purplish-yellow. He was silent for a second before his eyes narrowed. “_Clarke_,” he groaned, exasperated. “No.”

“Please, Bellamy! Monty invited me, and we figured I could actually sneak out and back pretty easily if you agreed to help us.” Clarke tucked her leg under her on the chair across from him, leaning forward, hoping.

“Clarke, we still don’t know if the poker chip guy is an ongoing threat. Since you wouldn’t let me tell anyone, no one could investigate, and we’d be going out blind.”

“But won’t they be less likely to do anything if it’s unofficial and unplanned?” Clarke tried to reason with him, worrying her lip with her teeth. She felt so stifled in here lately in the first weeks of the new year -- nothing to look forward to, nowhere to go. She was dreading attending her mother’s event tomorrow, and this might be the only chance she had to get out and be human for a while. She was going to take it if she could.

“I’ll get fired if we’re caught, Clarke,” Bellamy warned. “And you’d never be allowed to leave here again.” His voice softened, but his tone remained firm.

“Bellamy, you know how suffocating it is in here. It’s only one night. Monty will be there! And it’s a blacklight party. People will barely be able to see each other, so I probably won’t even be recognized.”

Bellamy held a withering gaze.

Clarke’s stomach twisted into a knot. She had to go tonight. She needed to for the sake of her sanity.

“I know I’ll be safe,” Clarke said quietly, keeping her eyes on his. “You’ll be there.”

She could almost see Bellamy wavering as he stared her down, the line of his mouth fidgeting.

He closed his eyes in surrender. “Fine.” He leaned his forehead into his hand. “Tell me the plan. And don’t forget our agreement -- if I say go, we go. No questions asked.”

Relief bloomed in Clarke’s chest. She was leaving this cage for tonight.

“Okay, so I was thinking around half past eight, we go down to the kitchen and…”

. . .

Bellamy felt strange accompanying Clarke and Monty in the car without any of his gear on. He’d checked out of work like any other day, turning his earpiece and walkie-talkie back on. The gun and the phone were his, but he’d turned off his phone just in case. He didn’t want anyone to be able to track his location tonight.

Clarke had worn a kitchen uniform out of one of the staff entrances -- one that Bellamy knew to not be perfectly monitored by its lone, awkwardly-angled security camera. She was currently sinking low in the backseat, her hair tied up under a beanie as she tugged the chef’s coat off to reveal a plain, unremarkable black henley and leggings.

“So, this is it,” Monty announced after they’d been in the car for almost 45 minutes. Bellamy looked across a brown, cropped field, squinting in the darkness. About a hundred yards away, near a tree line, a derelict barn stood abandoned, colorful lights flashing from its doors and sagging windows.

“A rave,” Bellamy said flatly, twisting to stare Clarke down in the back seat. “You brought us to a rave.”

“She didn’t mention that?” Monty asked from the drivers’ seat. “Yikes. My friend Jasper set this up. Harper couldn’t make it, but I still wanted to go, so I asked Clarke to tag along too.”

Bellamy sighed. “Monty, if you’re partaking tonight, and you drove us here, how are you planning on getting home?”

Across from him, Monty’s face fell. “I...forgot to think of that.”

Bellamy was _not_ prepared to be the sober babysitter at a rave. Not one bit. But it was too late now.

“Give me the keys,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. Monty pulled the car keys from the ignition and handed them over with an apologetic shrug. “This night is already a mess,” Bellamy muttered to his companions. “Please be careful and don’t make this harder on me than it has to be.”

“You got it, chief,” came Clarke’s voice from the backseat, chipper as she opened her car door with a dry creak.

“I’m gonna head in and find Jasper,” Monty called over the top of his car. “He sent these ahead of time, though.” Monty tossed a breath-mint tin over the car to Clarke, who snatched it out of the air with a grin.

Clarke turned to follow Monty before Bellamy stepped in her way.

“You know you have that speech to go to tomorrow. Are you sure you should get wasted tonight?”

“It’s not my speech, Bellamy. I won’t even have to say anything.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I never get chances to leave the house. Let me have this tonight, okay?”

Dread built in the pit of Bellamy’s stomach. He couldn’t help but feel that this was all a really, _really_ bad idea.

He just couldn’t make himself keep her away from any chance at happiness she might get. She sure as hell didn’t get many.

“Fine,” Bellamy grimaced. “Drink what you want. I don’t think you should take anything, though. You have no idea who these people are and they might have cut their pills with some bad shit, or they could be lying about what-”

“Don’t sweat it,” Clarke cut him off, shaking her head in amusement. “You’re being parental. Look, Jasper sent these ahead with Monty,” she added, popping up the lid to the tin in her hand to show two little yellow tablets. “He knows what he’s doing. They’re safe.”

“I still really don’t think you should-” Bellamy stopped as Clarke popped one of the tabs onto her tongue. She grinned at him.

“These are harmless, Bellamy. Loosen up, okay?”

Bellamy’s shoulders slumped. This was going to be a long night of babysitting.

…

Bellany leaned against the wall of the barn where no one would bother him. The flashing neon lights made it hard to keep an eye out for Clarke, but she’d taken off her beanie at some point, and he locked his vision on her silver-golden waves, glowing in the strobing lights. She was dancing with a group of girls that, as far as he knew, she’d never met before. She couldn’t stop laughing as she bounced around on the makeshift dance floor, her arms flailing and the glowsticks around her neck jostling up and down.

Bellamy didn’t think that Clarke was an addict by any means, but sometimes he worried that Clarke could only seem to loosen up around crowds if she leaned on some kind of illicit substance to help her out. Fleetingly, he was happy to realize that she no longer did that around him.

He winced as he noticed her take a swig from a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff. And another.

Monty quite literally danced toward Clarke doing some kind of Irish step, followed closely by a lanky, dark-haired boy that Bellamy assumed to be the aforementioned Jasper. Clarke doubled over in laughter, almost losing her balance and tumbling over. Monty shouted something that Bellamy couldn’t hear, and the three of them nodded, then sank in unison to sit against each other in the middle of the crowd.

This was ridiculous.

Bellamy took a lap of the room, keeping an eye out for anything that looked suspicious. Clarke was certainly in no position to get out of there fast on her own right now, so it would all come down to him.

The flashing lights made his eyes ache, and part of him wished that he could have a few shots to take the edge off, too. But now wasn’t the time.

As he settled back into another spot against the wall, he noticed that the terrible trio was now laying completely down on the dance floor, giggling and rolling slightly from side to side. A girl in stiletto heels, oblivious to the wasted group on the floor beside her, danced over Clarke’s forearm.

“_Ow,”_ Bellamy saw - rather than heard - Clarke screech, yanking her arm sluggishly up from the floor.

That was enough for now.

He pushed his way into the crowd, dodging manic partygoers and trying to focus on Clarke and her friends in the pulsating light.

He felt like he absolutely loomed over them as they gazed up at him with cheerful glazed eyes from the floor.

“You guys are getting trampled. Come back over this way,” Bellamy motioned with a nod of his head toward the wall where he had been standing. Monty, still giggling at something but capable of standing himself up, got to his feet and reached out a hand for the dazed-looking Jasper. Clarke, unmoving, stared up at him from the ground, her eyes wide and starry in the glow of the lights. Half-grinning to himself, Bellamy reached out a hand, pulling her up. She stumbled getting to her feet and didn’t let go of his hand as she wobbled toward him.

“Over there,” Bellamy repeated, leading the party to a dimmer, less crowded stretch of barn.

“I’m gonna stay the night with Jasper to make sure this all woes gell!” Monty shouted over the music in a slurred voice. “Wait. I mean loeg sell.” He frowned, shaking his head again. “Goes well,” he said finally, nodding his head in self-approval. “Can I have my car keys back so I can drive home in the morning?”

Bellamy sighed. “How are we supposed to get home then, Monty?”

Monty’s eyebrows shot up. “I gave Clarke cash for a cab!” He giggled. “What I just said is a tongue-twister!” His hand shot out expectantly, waiting for his keys. Reluctantly, Bellamy fished them out and dropped them into his palm.

“Do _not_ get into that car until tomorrow morning, okay Monty?” Bellamy held his eye, making sure he understood.

“You got it, dude.” Monty winked. “Tomorrow is my day off anyways.” He pointed toward the DJ stand. “We’ll be over there in cases if we don’t see you guys again tonightmorrow!” Monty gave them a sloppy salute as he and Jasper stumbled toward a lit-up turntable in the corner.

Bellamy watched them go, praying they wouldn’t fall down again. When he turned back around, Clarke was standing right in front of him, her eyes unfocused and her lips parted in a crooked grin.

“You’re really pretty,” Clarke slurred, swaying gently side to side.

Bellamy clenched his jaw. “You’ve really had a lot, haven’t you?”

“I’m _serious_,” she said, her brows drawing together as she frowned. “You’re pretty and you _need to know_.”

Bellamy shook his head, flattered, and decided to humor her. “Well, thank you, princess. That’s very nice of you.”

Clarke smiled back at him for a moment, still swaying back and forth. Suddenly, her face fell.

“Bellamy,” she asked, her voice halfway to a whine, “I’m only fun to be around when I’m wasted, aren’t I?”

Surprised at her bluntness, Bellamy was fishing for a sarcastic reply when he saw tears welling in her eyes. His throat tightened.

“That’s not true, Clarke.”

“But it _is._ Maybe I’m not even a real person.” Her lower lip poked out comically, and Bellamy would have laughed if he hadn’t known this was a real insecurity.

“Clarke.” He leaned down to her eye level, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “You’re absolutely a real person. And you know what? You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but you’re completely fine just the way you are.”

Clarke bent her head to swipe away a tear. “Really?” she asked, her voice watery.

Bellamy nodded, keeping his face serious. “You shouldn’t change anything, Clarke.”

Clarke sniffed, her eyes falling toward the ground. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

Bellamy’s heart squeezed, and he hoped she was just too wasted to be making well-informed statements.

Her gaze flickered back up suddenly, and her eyes widened. “Do you know what would be really good right now? More vodka!” She darted away suddenly, startling him before he could stop her.

“Clarke, that’s really not a good-” Bellamy didn’t finish his sentence, knowing it was too loud in the barn for her to hear him.

She was an adult, and he guessed that he should maybe let her make her own mistakes, since no one else would.

Bellamy spent the next half hour between playing TETRIS on his phone and keeping an eye on Clarke. When he glanced up to see her slumped against two guys, barely able to stand as they drunkenly scrutinized her face, Bellamy’s blood pressure spiked.

He made the executive decision that it was time to go.

“Hey,” he half-shouted at her, looping an arm around her waist to keep her upright. “That’s enough for tonight. Let’s go.”

Clarke’s head lolled upward toward him, her eyes barely tracking his face. She mumbled something he couldn’t make out.

“Hey man,” one of the guys around her tripped over his words. “Is that the president’s kid?”

Bellamy had to think fast. “She gets that all the time,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “Crazy resemblance, huh?”

The two guys stared mutely at them, nodding listlessly as Bellamy half-dragged Clarke toward the barn door.

“Come on Clarke, try to walk, okay?” Clarke groaned, leaning heavily against him. The toes of her boots dragged the ground as she grew closer and closer to dead weight.

Bellamy heaved her along as best as he could, finally settling them both down on a dead patch of grass a few yards past Monty’s parked car. Unnerved by the questions of the guys just a few moments ago, Bellamy patted at Clarke’s pockets for her wool beanie, acutely aware of how brightly her hair shone in the moonlight.

Bellamy hated to turn his phone back on before he got home, but it had to be done. He powered it back up and dialed a cab as Clarke, humming unintelligibly to herself, leaned heavily against his shoulder.

“Bell, ‘m so thirsty,” Clarke mumbled, trying and failing to lift her head as she spoke.

Bellamy groaned. “You’re probably dehydrated. Did you drink _any _water tonight?”

Clarke shook her head vehemently against him, like a child.

“You’ve really got to pay more attention to your own wellbeing sometimes, you know,” he grumbled at her, praying for the cab to arrive faster.

Clarke’s head slid forward against his arm, and she plopped down into his lap, the back of her neck resting against his thigh. She stared upward, glassy-eyed, at the stars, unaffected by the cold night air in her current state.

“Who cares about my wellbeing,” she mumbled, her words sticking together as they left her parched throat. Her eyes began to drift shut.

“Lots of people,” Bellamy retorted, trying not to roll his eyes. “You’re the first daughter.”

“They don’t care,” she said, a strange note of finality in her voice despite her slurring.

“Well, some people do,” Bellamy said, tugging her beanie gently back over her head.

“Mmh,” she grunted, her eyes reopening groggily. “I wonder what’d be like to live in space,” she said suddenly, her gaze wobbling past him and struggling to focus on the stars above them.

“I don’t think you’d like being trapped up there,” Bellamy replied, following her gaze skyward. “It’s not particularly hospitable for human life.”

“Neither is here,” Clarke slurred even more heavily than before, her head flopping sideways, her cheek leaning against his pants leg. He could feel the pulse in her neck beating somewhat quickly against his thigh.

A pair of headlights flashed him close to the road, and a yellow sedan inched closer to their grassy spot near the parked cars.

“Cab’s here,” he informed her, rubbing her upper arm gently. “You’ve got to get up, okay?”

Clarke groaned, struggling to push her upper body up with her arms.

“Noodle arms,” she rasped, her elbows shaking with effort. Defeated, Bellamy looped his arms under hers, lifting her to her feet alongside him, like he used to do to his sister when she was little and too tired to take herself to bed. Bellamy’s heart dropped a little, like an elevator that almost crashed but stopped at the last second.

He held her body close to his as he walked them to the backseat, making sure that her head was down and out of view from curious eyes -- eyes that might recognize her.

Her strength left her again as the car backed up and drove away. She slept curled up in the back, her head in his lap. About halfway home, he noticed her shivering, her forehead breaking out into a cold sweat. He shrugged out of his jacket, tucking it over her shoulder as tightly as he could. His hand fell to rest on her shoulder, and she snaked her arm up through the jacket, squeezing his hand with one of hers as she huddled down further into his lap.

…

“I’m so cold, Bell’my,” Clarke mumbled as Bellamy finally managed to sneak her back into her room. “So cold. Colder than usual.”

“Just sit down, okay?” Bellamy guided her as she stumbled blindly into her dimly-lit room, only the nightstand lamp shining in the darkness. He sat her on the upholstered bench at the foot of her bed, watching her for a second to make sure she wouldn’t fall over.

“Clarke, can you tell me where you keep your sweaters?” Bellamy leaned down to her eye level, resting his hands on his thighs.

“Closet. Left shelf,” she slurred, her teeth chattering slightly. She clutched her arms around her middle, trying to conserve her own body heat despite her ongoing cold sweat beading on her forehead.

Bellamy flicked the light on in her closet, stepping foot in it for the first time. Of course it was a walk-in closet -- he didn’t expect anything less. He was surprised to see one corner of the closet hung with colorful, playful-looking clothing -- clothing he’d never seen her wear. The rest of it was filled with dark neutrals and grays: sweaters, sweatpants, tops and jeans. The most organized side of it was lined with pantsuits and formal dresswear -- also primarily in dark neutral colors. He reached up on the shelf for a particularly thick, heather gray knit pullover, tucking it under his arm and switching off the light.

“Put this on,” Bellamy advised, placing the sweater on her lap for her expectantly. Clarke’s head lolled downward and she stared at the pullover mutely. Her arms reached up for it, grasped it weakly, then fell back to her sides. Bellamy tilted his head back in exasperation.

“Okay. Can you hold out your arms for me?” Clarke limply extended her arms. They shook in front of her. Bellamy bunched up the sweater at the armholes and slid them onto her arms, quickly pulling it over her head and down her body while he could. Clarke’s head emerged, and her eyes drooped, struggling to focus on him.

She was fading fast.

Bellamy reached behind her to pull her tangled, sweaty hair out from underneath her collar.

“Clarke?” He asked, starting to get anxious. Her eyes weren’t tracking and she was still sweating despite her constant shivers.

“Mmh,” she grunted, her voice sticking in her throat.

“It’s time for bed, okay? Do you think you can get up and walk a few feet for me?”

Clarke shook her head listlessly. “I’ll jus’ sleep here.” She slumped against the bed behind her, her back bending at what was almost certainly an uncomfortable angle.

Bellamy frowned. “I don’t think so,” he muttered. Sighing, he moved beside her, tucking one arm behind her knees and wrapping the other around her back. Making sure he had a steady grip, he picked her up, unhappy with the way her limbs and neck hung limply down.

It was only a few steps, and he laid her down as gently as he could on the covers, making sure she was facing up as her head hit the pillow. As her body stretched out on the mattress, her sweater and the shirt underneath rose up, exposing the bare skin of her abdomen.

There were fresh, angry red slashes near her hips. Only a day or two old at most.

Bellamy winced, all of the wind leaving him.

Not again. Not more.

“Clarke,” he said, grimacing as his voice cracked. Her eyes were closed, but she made a faint noise acknowledging him.

Bellamy lifted a hand, gently tracing the soft skin of her stomach about an inch higher than the fresh marks.

“Don’t look at me,” she grumbled, her slurring worse than before. With a fumbling hand, she managed to tug her sweater back down over her hips. “Don’t.”

Bellamy, trying to keep panic from rising in his chest, lifted his gaze to her face. Her brow was still shining with sweat. Needing a second, he turned abruptly, striding over to the linen closet for a fresh hand towel.

He knelt by the bed, his elbows leaning on the mattress next to her as he gently wiped away sweat from her brow and temples. Her eyes drifted open, wandering for a moment before resting on his.

“Please don’t do that anymore,” Bellamy asked softly, dabbing at the sheen on her collarbones. “Please.”

“It helps,” she rasped, her eyes swimming with a mixture of sadness and intoxication.

“I promise it doesn’t,” Bellamy murmured, trying to erase the sight of her red, broken skin from his mind. Trying not to think of the hurt she was feeling when she decided to do it.

She said nothing, gazing back at him silently.

“Please try, for me, if not for yourself, okay?” Bellamy pleaded, tucking stringy, short pieces of hair away from her face and back behind her ear.

He wished that in touching her, he could absorb her pain, somehow.

She didn’t deserve this.

Maybe he did.

Clarke finally nodded, her eyes glazed and somehow grayer than usual.

Bellamy laid the towel on the nightstand and picked up the bottle of water that had been sitting near her lamp.

“You need to drink some of this, okay?” Clarke looked at it helplessly, and Bellamy reached a hand back behind her head, supporting it as he tipped water into her mouth for as long as she could manage. “Drink the rest of it when you wake up.”

Bellamy looked down at his watch. It was late.

“I need to go, Clarke.”

He reached down, pulling the blankets up over her. Suddenly, he felt a clammy hand on his wrist, closing around it with a slack grip.

“You never stay.” Her voice was low, almost inaudible.

Despite his tired, aching bones, his headache, and his pressing need to sleep, Bellamy found that he wished he could.

“It’s not my shift, princess,” he whispered, tucking another strand of hair behind one of her ears.

She blinked up at him slowly. Sadly.

Before his mind could catch up with his body, he leaned down, pressing his lips lightly to her forehead.

“Good night, Clarke,” he said gently, tugging his wrist out of her grasp. Her fingers trailed across his pulse and down his palm as she let go.

Bellamy looked down at his watch as he finally exited the building. He was going to have to run if he wanted to catch the last metro out.

He liked running. It gave him something to blame for the heart currently pounding harder than usual in his chest.

…

The light streaming through the curtains that a staff member had just opened briskly was so bright that Clarke almost felt like vomiting. Her mouth was a desert and her head was throbbing. Squinting, she saw the half-empty water bottle on her bedside table and reached for it, sucking it down.

Searching her brain for memories, Clarke realized that she had no idea what had happened last night past laying on the dance floor with Monty and Jasper. She only had a _very _fuzzy memory of riding back home in a car, with Bellamy beside her in the backseat. Maybe it was better off that way.

She’d never come down off of ecstasy before. Somehow, this morning, she felt more empty inside, more broken than usual. She wanted to stay in bed until the world ended.

But she couldn’t.

Groaning, she padded into the bathroom, rummaging in a drawer for the almost-full bottle of percocet that she had left over from her wisdom teeth removal last spring. Unscrewing the cap, she popped one into her mouth and shoved the bottle back into its hiding place.

She probably shouldn’t be taking painkillers, but did it really matter if she was a little out of it if all she had to do was stand there while her mother gave a speech?

When she went back out to her bedroom, a pantsuit, freshly dry-cleaned, was laid out on her bed, just as she expected.

By the time the hair and makeup and PR coaching teams had come and gone, the pill had kicked in, and she could barely feel the aches in her head and body.

A knock sounded at her door. Clarke glanced down at the time on her phone screen. It was time for him to be here.

Bellamy, already clad in his suit for the event later, appeared around the side of the door.

“Feeling better?” His eyes searched her face intently, so much that Clarke withdrew her own gaze.

“I’m making it,” she offered tiredly, glad that the makeup team had covered the deep purple circles under her eyes. They’d almost been worse than Bellamy’s faded bruise.

“No one ever really told me how bad coming down off of this stuff could be.”

Bellamy shook his head. “I’d guessed as much from last night.”

Clarke’s skin prickled. “What happened last night?”

Bellamy held her gaze, his brows drawing together. A beat of silence passed before he spoke again. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember hanging out with Jasper and Monty. I remember a cab ride home. Everything else is a blank.” Clarke shrugged at him.

Bellamy’s jaw clenched. His shoulders fell as his eyes dropped to the carpet.

Clarke’s sense of unease grew. “Bellamy, why? What happened?”

“You don’t remember anything after that?” He asked again, his tone almost too flat to be a question.

“No, I don’t. Bellamy, please tell me.” Clarke’s mind raced. Did she say something inappropriate? Did someone _do _something…

Bellamy ran a hand over his tired face. “Nothing happened, Clarke. I promise. Nothing to worry about.” He gave her a weary look. “I’m just surprised you don’t remember getting home or talking before you went to sleep.”

Clarke’s heart lurched. “What did we talk about?”

Bellamy shook his head. “Nothing important.” He placed his hands on his hips, leaning back against the wall.

Clarke bit her lip. Clearly whatever it was, he didn’t care enough to rehash it. Maybe it really didn’t matter that much.

She guessed she wouldn’t ever find out.

“Are you ready for this? Because I’m not.” Clarke gestured tiredly down at her pantsuit, trying to crack a sarcastic smile. “I didn’t think it was possible for them to make me look even _more_ drab, but I guess I have a team of miracle workers.”

Bellamy nodded absently. He didn’t really seem like he was in the mood to talk.

When it came down to it, Clarke supposed she wasn’t really in the mood either.

They sat silently, Clarke with her math textbook, Bellamy dozing lightly in his armchair, waiting to be summoned.

She couldn’t decide if she wished she remembered more of last night or not.

Finally, one of her mother’s security team members stuck her head through a crack in the door.

“We’re moving out,” she said brusquely, withdrawing as suddenly as she had appeared.

Clarke sighed as she shoved her feet into uncomfortable, nude-colored low-slung heels.

The motorcade ride to the event venue was quiet.

Clarke looked over to see Bellamy staring out the window, his chin in his hands, his suit jacket unbuttoned haphazardly.

She felt a little bad for keeping him out so late. She knew there was little chance that _he_ had any fun babysitting her blacked-out ass last night.

Clarke and her mother were marched by a small army of secret service members into the event hall. She could hear cheering from the venue, muffled in response to the warm-up speaker. Someone from the NRA, Clarke had heard.

Bellamy, who was part of the wall of security officers, marched beside her the whole way. Exhausted and struggling to stay focused, she wished she could reach out and squeeze his hand for comfort.

But she wasn’t sure he wanted to offer that to her right now, and besides, with her mother next to her, the press, and the litany of staff, it was about the worst time possible for her to do something like that.

“Just stand there and look pretty,” her mom said to her suddenly, turning to give her a brief pat on the cheek. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

Clarke gazed sullenly back at her mother, lacking the energy to come up with a response.

Ahead of them, someone opened the side doors, and the officers around them began to usher them into the venue. Clarke could see a podium on a raised black platform with several flags placed in stands a few feet behind it. As they were paraded up a few steps and onto the stage, Clarke let her vision glaze over, focusing on nothing. She didn’t care to see this. She didn’t care to hear this.

She didn’t want to be there.

Applause thundered throughout the event hall as her mother made her way to the podium.

“Thank you so much for having me here today,” Her mother began politely, offering her best politician’s smile to the crowd.

“I’d also like to thank this organization for hosting this conference. Law enforcement officers in our wonderful country have long gone unthanked, unappreciated, and misunderstood, and I applaud you all for stepping up to finally try and change that.”

Clarke suppressed an eye roll, remembering at the last second that dozens of cameras and thousands of eyes could see her. She stole a look at Bellamy, who was standing about five feet away and just back from her. His gaze was on the crowd, his brow lowered in scrutiny. He didn’t return her look.

Clarke tuned back in to the soft drone of her mother’s voice. “...blue lives have _always_ mattered to me, and I-”

“Bullshitter!” a voice rang out in the crowd. “Liar!” a murmur of confusion spread in the room, and heads turned, looking for the disgruntled audience member.

“_Down with the Griffins!_” the voice shouted, still disembodied. A loud bang echoed in the room, causing even sluggish Clarke to jump. Her tired mind groped around in the darkness of her memory, landing with paralyzing alarm. _The poker chip._ Her heart rate doubled, and another shot rang out. Screams rose like sirens out of nowhere, and before Clarke could register what was happening, her body slammed against the scratchy carpet of the platform.

The heavy, almost crushing weight of Bellamy’s body covered her. His arm curled above her head, and his cheek pressed against hers, holding her down.

“Don’t move,” she thought she heard his strangled voice command roughly in her ear.

The sound of blood rushing in her ears nearly blocked out the sound of the raging chaos in the arena beyond. Her chest heaved uncontrollably against Bellamy’s -- she couldn’t slow her breathing down. She didn’t even know how to try.

She couldn’t see anything that was happening. She could barely hear. All she had to hold on to was Bellamy’s form looming over her, wrapped around her like a human barricade.

“It’s clear!” She heard Hector’s voice shout from somewhere above them. “Eagle is secure! Shooter apprehended!”

Clarke’s heart still clung in her throat, beating wildly.

“Blake, you can get up,” Hector called from above. “Blake?”

Clarke could feel Bellamy’s arms shake as he lifted himself up on his elbows, his weight disappearing from on top of Clarke. She turned her face upward, frantically searching for his eyes. When she found them, they were wide, wild. His lip was trembling in shock.

“Clarke, are you hurt?” His voice shook so badly she almost didn’t understand him. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she couldn’t pinpoint why.

“I’m okay,” she choked out, trying to take a deep breath and shuddering instead.

She was suddenly aware of a soaking wet spot near her blouse collar. Confused, she reached her hand up to brush at it. Her fingers came away streaked with deep, crimson blood.

“Oh my god,” she said wordlessly, her voice catching in her throat. She wondered how that could be her blood if she didn’t feel anything.

When she looked back up at Bellamy, she understood.

It wasn’t her blood.

The shoulder of his suit was ripped, and a deep, dark stain was blooming wider by the minute. Bellamy’s arm began to shake even harder, threatening to collapse.

For the second time today, Clarke felt the urge to throw up.

She tried to scream. No sound left her mouth.

She tried again.

“Help! Someone help him! _Now_!”

It worked this time. Her voice sounded shrill and too loud in her own ears.

Adrenaline kicked in and she pushed herself up off the floor, grabbing on hard to Bellamy’s upper arms.

“Bellamy, you’re hurt! Lay down, okay? Just lay back. You’re gonna be fine.” She lowered him gently to the floor, wincing at how hard he was still shaking. His eyes roved wildly, looking at her.

“Get help in here now!” Clarke screamed again, the panic in her veins threatening to consume her. Thinking back to the first aid training she’d done at summer camp a few years ago, she tried to hold it together, filtering rapidly through her brain for the correct procedures. Help wasn’t coming fast enough.

Clarke reached up to his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said, her watery voice making her realize she was still crying. “This is going to hurt a little bit, okay? I’m sorry.” She pressed her palm tightly against the part of his shoulder where the blood was the darkest. He flinched, his jaw clenching as his face went pale. She held his eyes as his wound soaked her hand and sleeve with blood.

“Just look at me, okay?” Clarke leaned over his face, her eyes swimming. She thought briefly that she might be in shock right now if she would let herself be.

“You’re going to be okay.”

EMTs appeared out of nowhere, slamming a stretcher down on the platform next to them. One of them knocked her roughly out of the way, helping his crew lift Bellamy onto the stretcher. A sob caught in Clarke’s throat as they began wheeling him toward the double doors of the exit. He turned his head to look back at her, his eyes helpless for the first time she’d ever seen. Hastily kicking off her heels, she ran down the platform steps, following.

_Just a shoulder wound,_ she tried to tell herself. He isn’t going to die. He’s going to be fine.

“Clarke, you’re not going in that ambulance.”

“Yes, I am, Hector! I don’t care if they shoot me!” She half-shouted at him over her shoulder.

She heard a frustrated groan behind her, but the sound of dress shoes following told her that her other bodyguard was fast on her heels.

“I’m serious, Hector,” she told him, keeping her eyes on Bellamy instead of looking back. “I’m going. Feel free to ride behind us. But I’m _going_.”

Clarke climbed up into the cab of the ambulance next to Bellamy’s stretcher. They’d placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, but he was still conscious. His eyes met hers, and she reached down for his hand, squeezing it. Hoping he could still feel it.

As Clarke’s heart continued to pound, something struck her.

“Hector,” she called down out of the ambulance doors. “Is everyone else okay?”

“Everyone but the shooter,” Hector shouted back as he climbed into one of the motorcade cars.

Another sob of relief choked out of Clarke. Everyone else was safe.

Just not Bellamy.

Not _her _Bellamy.

The blare of the sirens on the roof of the vehicle started up again as they began to move.

Clarke snapped her gaze back to Bellamy. His eyes had drifted shut, but his chest was still rising and falling steadily.

Clarke prayed for them to drive faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the cliffhanger! Hope you enjoyed anyways!


	7. The Bird Risks it All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a terrible secret is discovered, Clarke does what she thinks is right, no matter the cost, and Bellamy begins to tell the truth.

* * *

Bellamy was given a private room in the hospital for the sake of security -- for Clarke, not him. Hector was still insistent that Clarke not be seen or kept in public, as White House security was still determining whether or not the shooter was a lone wolf or part of some organization. There weren’t any private waiting rooms, so they’d literally had to hide in a broom closet while Bellamy was being assessed.

The shooting had broken Clarke out of her haze from this morning. She wasn’t out of it anymore. She was _painfully_ present.

Wheeling Bellamy into the emergency room bay meant having to let him out of her sight. The thought of not being in the room with him made her sick to her stomach. Not only could she not see him, but it meant she had time to think about what had happened.

Bellamy had been shot because of her.

His life might be in danger -- _because of her._

He had enough going on as it was. And this was all her fault.

A coded knock sounded on the door -- one Hector had worked out with a nurse when they’d arrived. He twisted open the door, peeking his head out before stepping back to let the woman in. She was short, compact, and very tired-looking, her seafoam green-colored scrubs a bit rumpled and creased. Her stern face softened a bit when she met Clarke’s eyes. Clarke briefly thought that she probably looked horrible -- makeup streaks and swollen eyes. It didn’t really matter.

“Miss Griffin.” The nurse nodded. “I’m Marie. I’ve been instructed to let you know the status of Mr. Blake.” Clarke crossed her arms, her stomach writhing like a bucket of worms. She nodded at the nurse to go on.

“The bullet entered and exited his trapezius muscle and nicked a vein -- that’s why there was so much blood.” Clarke swallowed thickly, her palms sweating. “Thankfully, no major arteries were hit, and it was easy for the doctors to stitch him right back up. He’s going to be fine.”

To her surprise, a sob choked out of Clarke that she didn’t know she’d still been holding in. She tried to draw a deep breath, shuddering at how the air rattled in her chest raggedly.

_He was going to be fine._

“In fact, depending on his body and his own preferences, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was back at work within the week. He still has full range of motion -- it’ll just twinge a bit for a while, and he’ll need to take it easy with that arm for a few weeks while it heals up.”

Clarke sucked down a wheeze. She knew she should say a prayer or thank her lucky stars, or whatever she was supposed to do. She could still see his blood on her hands when she closed her eyes.

The fact that she would get him back felt like a miracle.

“Can I -- can I see him?” Clarke asked tentatively, her voice small as it rasped up through her throat.

The nurse nodded with a small smile. “He’s been given some painkillers, but he’s still awake.”

Clarke, still in stockinged, shoeless feet, made straight for the door, the cold tile shocking her toes as she moved.

“Ah-ah,” Hector’s voice came from behind her, freezing her in place. Clarke’s shoulders sagged.

“Hector, I _have_ to see him,” Clarke began, turning her weary eyes back to her bodyguard.

He studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowed, his expression inscrutable. Clarke tried to keep her face as neutral as possible.

“I’m not stopping you,” he said finally, folding his hands together in front of him. “I just need to walk out there beside you.”

Clarke kept herself from sighing audibly in relief. “Hector?” She asked, realizing the nurse’s eyes were dancing curiously between the two of them. Her cheeks began to warm. “Can I talk to him alone for a little while?”

Hector nodded, not meeting her eyes as he strode past her to grasp the door handle. “I’ll be stationed outside his door.”

…

It took everything in her not to start crying the second Clarke shut the door behind her in Bellamy’s hospital room. Something about hospitals and seeing sick people always made her cry. Maybe it was because she couldn’t help them. Maybe it was because it made her afraid. She didn’t really know.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat as she walked to his bedside, picking up an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair and taking it with her.

Bellamy, who’d been staring up at the ceiling, tilted his head slightly toward her, locking his eyes on her. His bed was slightly raised, and blankets only covered him from the waist down. It felt strange seeing him in the pale, flimsy hospital gown instead of his usual black and his button-ups. Gauze and tape formed a raised lump on the shoulder on his other side, giving his frame an uneven appearance.

“Hey,” Clarke said feebly, sinking into the creaky chair. She struggled to meet his eyes.

She didn’t know what to do.

His hand was lying on the mattress above the blankets, curling limply by his side. She reached for it with both of hers, wrapping her fingers around his larger, callused ones.

When she finally found the courage to meet his eyes again, hot tears welled in them immediately.

“You need to change clothes,” he said suddenly, his eyes not leaving hers. “You look pretty alarming.”

Clarke had almost forgotten that his blood had soaked through her jacket and blouse too. Clean clothes hadn’t really been her priority.

“It doesn’t matter,” she shook her head, trying to smile. Her hands shook as she squeezed the one she was holding.

“Bellamy,” she began, a tear spilling over and trickling toward her lips, “I’m so sorry.”

Bellamy tilted his head back against the pillow. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Clarke.”

Clarke sniffed. “But I do.” She felt the trail of the teardrop continue down her chin. “If I’d let you tell someone about what happened that night at the concert, this might not have happened.”

Bellamy shook his head, unyielding.

“I was being selfish.” Clarke stopped, waiting until she felt like she could speak without a sob interrupting her. “And I’m sorry.”

Bellamy’s eyes stayed on her, soft. She couldn’t take it and bowed her head, staring down at her own lap.

“You were already forgiven.” His voice was low, gentle. Almost a whisper. It was a hair trigger to her.

Clarke couldn’t stop the tears from coming now, steadily streaming down her already ruined made-up face. She squeezed his hand almost involuntarily in her own. She felt a light pressure from his fingers in return.

“It’s-” Clarke sucked in a watery breath. Part of her was embarrassed for herself, but she just couldn’t seem to stop. To stop talking. To stop crying. “It’s not just that, Bellamy.” She let go of his hands, gripping hard onto the hospital bed rails. She needed something to channel her distress into. She squeezed the railing so hard her knuckles blanched white. “You could have _died_ today. And it would have been for me. And that’s fucking _bullshit_,” she rasped, her shoulders shaking. She was so angry with herself.

“It’s my job, Clarke,” he said lightly, reflexively trying to shrug and wincing hard when he realized he couldn’t.

Clarke let go with one hand to swipe at her soaking wet cheeks. “Your life isn’t worth losing to save mine,” she ground out, the flush in her cheeks moving down to her neck. “I can’t let you die for a life as meaningless as mine, Bellamy. I can’t. I can’t,” she shook her head over and over, mindlessly biting down on her lip to keep a sob from escaping.

She felt a cool, dry palm rest on her cheek, a thumb swiping at the tears under her eyes. She dragged her gaze up, squinting through her puffy, wet eyes to meet his.

“Clarke,” he said quietly, a tremor in his voice. “Please don’t _ever_ say something like that about yourself again.” His thumb trailed down to her bottom lip, brushing it gently. “You have no idea how untrue that is.”

Clarke couldn’t bring herself to agree. She closed her eyes under his gaze, leaning into his palm.

Her face felt raw, exposed when his hand dropped back down to his side.

“I’ll be back at work on Monday, okay?” He said, his voice still reassuring despite the fact that it was _him_ laying in a hospital bed with a gunshot wound. It made another lump rise in Clarke’s throat.

“Are you sure?” She sniffed, her voice thick from crying. “That seems really soon-”

“Do you not want me back?” He interrupted, his face solemn. As if he really didn’t know the answer.

“I always want you there,” Clarke replied, a tremulous smile breaking across her lips. “I just want you to feel better.”

“It looked way worse than it is,” Bellamy grumbled. “It just bled a lot. It didn’t even hurt that much. I was just in shock from losing blood. Just a transfusion and a quick stitch-up. Easy fix,” he assured her, rubbing the back of her hand. “They’re even letting me go in a few hours. I’m only here so they can make sure I don’t have a reaction to anything they gave me.”

Clarke nodded, still shaky. “Just take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” he answered. He seemed like he meant it.

Hector’s head appeared from around the door. “Can I speak with the two of you for a moment?”

They both nodded.

“I’ve been speaking with the head of security. I just wanted to let you know that the man is currently headed for custody once he’s been medically seen to, and as of now, security is confident that he acted alone. His name’s Lieutenant Carl Emerson, apparently suffering from severe PTSD after two deployments. Not part of any group or terrorist cell.”

Hector’s gaze danced between the two of them.

“You both should be safe now,” he added, his tone gentler than usual.

Clarke exhaled, her shoulders still shaking slightly.

“But it’s time to go home, Miss Griffin,” he announced quietly, motioning toward the door with his head.

Her posture sinking, Clarke grabbed onto the railing once more, pushing herself to her feet. The energy she’d rediscovered earlier was now totally gone from her body.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” She half-whispered to Bellamy, trying to smile.

He nodded at her, giving the two of them a faint wave with his good arm.

Clarke looked back at him every second that she headed toward the door.

He didn’t look away.

As Hector escorted her out to the car, the rough pavement digging into her almost-bare feet, she realized she’d never thanked Bellamy for saving her life.

…

“I thought we ought to talk after what happened at the speech,” Clarke’s mother spoke calmly, her fingers folded together mildly on top of her desk.

Clarke sat in the chair opposite her, not feeling the particular need to respond. She was exhausted, despite doing absolutely nothing but sitting in her room for the last few days. But she didn’t feel afraid. At least, not for herself.

“As you’ve been previously notified, the man has been determined to be acting alone. Nothing about his private life or what was found on his laptop seems to indicate that he was radicalized by a group, or is otherwise part of one. He was simply deeply disturbed and sorely in need of professional help, it seems. The man is now in custody, and he’ll likely be put away for the rest of his life. The threat level for us has not been elevated.”

Clarke nodded, fidgeting with the threadbare hem of her sleeve. None of this was information she didn’t already know.

“I’ve recommended Agent Blake for a Secretary’s Award for Valor.” President Griffin paused, giving Clarke a small smile. “‘To be given in extraordinary circumstances to those who have demonstrated extraordinary courage in a highly dangerous, life-threatening situation or emergency under extreme stress and involving a specific act of valor, such as saving another person’s life or property.’ You’ve got yourself a bodyguard worth his salt, Clarke.”

Clarke tried not to roll her eyes at the fact that her mother had memorized the award statement.

“I don’t think Bellamy would really be comfortable with that,” Clarke began. She’d noticed over the months that Bellamy didn’t really seem to enjoy any kind of public praise or flattery. It made him shifty and a little embarrassed, from what she could tell.

“Oh?” President Griffin’s tone hardened ever so slightly. “I’ll withdraw my recommendation then. As long as _you’re _comfortable with knowing you’re the reason he didn’t get it.”

Clarke gritted her teeth. “I wasn’t saying that he didn’t _deserve_ it, I was saying that it would make him-”

“No matter,” her mother interrupted her, holding up a silencing hand. “The issue is behind us now.”

Clarke leaned back in her chair sullenly. It wasn’t comfortable to sit in. She wasn’t comfortable in here.

“Now, I wanted to talk to you about how you’re doing. What happened on that stage was rather traumatic, Clarke. My advisors recommended counseling services for both of us, and my session yesterday was incredibly helpful to me. What day of the week would be best for recurring appointments for you?” She had picked up a pen, poising it over an already crowded legal pad.

Clarke shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Clarke, I really think it would be best for you to-”  
“No, mom. I feel fine. I don’t have anything to say to a therapist about it.” Clarke was not about to let herself be psychoanalyzed. She was afraid what someone with professional experience might see.

She couldn’t let this cage around her grow even smaller.

President Griffin shrugged. “Let a staffer know if you change your mind, then.” Her gaze lingered on her daughter’s face, looking for something. For what, Clarke didn’t know, but she averted her eyes all the same.

“Is that all for today?”

“Yes. Have a good afternoon.” Her mother nodded at her, breaking her gaze to concentrate on the notepad she had before her. Clarke pushed herself up out of her seat, heading for the door and following the substitute bodyguard whose name she’d already forgotten.

The new bodyguard shut the door behind her. He didn’t come in. She didn’t know him.

Bellamy was the only one that ever came in.

Bellamy.

He was supposed to be back at work in just two short days, unless he wasn’t healing like the doctors expected him to.

The first day after the shooting, Clarke realized she didn’t even have either of his phone numbers -- not his secret service one or his personal one. He was around her so often that she’d never felt the need to call him or send him a text.

She hoped that he was okay.

She hoped that he wasn’t scared to come back.

Clarke climbed back into bed. It was Saturday -- she could be bowling, or down in the home theater watching a movie. She could be in the kitchens asking Monty how the rest of the party turned out. She could be up on the promenade, watching the cars and the foot traffic go by.

But she didn’t really feel like doing any of that.

Bellamy had forgiven her, but she hadn’t forgiven herself.

She couldn’t stop thinking about how he would probably be here right now with her if she’d just let him tell security about what had happened with her drink that night back in the fall. About the suspicious man he’d spotted in that karaoke bar in London.

She should never have asked him for his silence. It had almost cost him his life.

That wasn’t a price she was willing to pay. For anything.

A half-burned candle sat in her reach on her nightstand. Reaching for the long-necked lighter beside it, she held a flame to the wick, waiting for it to catch.

The candle crackled and popped for a moment before the flame stabilized, a pool of cinnamony, autumn-scented wax already forming in the center.

Bellamy could have died.

_But he didn’t_.

But her selfishness would have been the reason.

Clarke reached an open palm over the flame, hovering it near the lick of the orange-golden fire.

Lower.

Lower.

Lower.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

…

Getting dressed in the mornings when you could only lift one arm higher than your shoulder had proved to be a challenge that Bellamy couldn’t get accustomed to during his convalescence.

As much as he knew he needed time to heal, he kind of hated the days he’d spent lying on the couch, wearing sweatpants and doing nothing. He certainly wasn’t doing nothing by choice.

He no longer had a sister who would come watch re-runs with him and hog the popcorn.

It had been a long time since he’d had a mother to take care of him while he was sick.

And Clarke -- Clarke was out of reach.

The night they’d released him from the hospital, he realized they’d never even exchanged phone numbers.

You don’t need to call someone if you’re around them most waking hours of every day.

After a short struggle, Bellamy finally got both arms through his work shirt and his coat.

Bellamy was more than ready to go back to work, but a large part of him was afraid.

While she sat by him in the hospital room, it was pretty clear that she blamed herself. Even in situations that weren’t clear-cut, Bellamy knew all about how hard it was to stop blaming yourself.

But it wasn’t her fault. No one could have known.

And he was just doing his job.

She didn’t need to know that he would have done it even if it wasn’t his job.

She was already struggling as it was. He didn’t want her to put this burden on her shoulders too.

He still hadn’t forgotten the night before the assassination attempt. What she said. What he saw.

He wondered if the memories had come back to her since then.

Bellamy locked the door to his apartment, ready to catch the train.

…

Bellamy knocked on her bedroom door, oddly comforted by the sight of the familiar hallway and its airy, pastel colors.

Hearing no reply, protest or otherwise, he peered around the doorframe.

“Clarke?”

“I’m here,” her voice came from the direction of the bed. He just made out a tousled golden head amongst the mess of twisted blankets and comforters.

Frowning, Bellamy double-checked his watch. “Aren’t you usually up and about by now?”

A dismissive groan came from the blanket pile’s direction.

Suddenly, a single hand snaked out from under a blanket. It was reaching out for him.

A small sigh escaping his lips, Bellamy crossed the room, shrugging his coat off with a wince and depositing it on the bench at the foot of the bed.

As he sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, Clarke rose from the quilted mire, her upper body drawing up beside him. The circles under her eyes were darker than usual, and her hair was a complete mess.

“Hey,” she said, her voice cracking.

Bellamy slipped his hand around hers.

“Hey,” he echoed. Such simple words, hanging so heavily in the air.

“How do you feel?” She finally asked him, furtively meeting and then breaking his gaze.

“A little sore. It’s really nothing. I’ve felt worse after a long run,” he reassured her. And it was true. He didn’t hurt so bad right now. His pain today was a mere shadow compared to those first few hours after it happened.

Clarke tucked a knee to the side, turning so that she faced him.

“Can I see it?” She asked suddenly, her voice small.

Bellamy was thrown by the question. Was she asking just to make herself feel worse? He was suddenly glad at how cleanly it had all stitched up. Maybe it would reassure her.

He nodded, and his breath caught in his throat as she leaned forward, pulling the buttons out of their holes at the collar of his shirt. She kept going about halfway down, and finally stopped, tugging his loosened shirt to one side. Bellamy still couldn’t breathe as she shuffled even closer to him, her knee digging into his thigh.

Gentle as a whisper, her hand rested on the skin where his shoulder met his arm, keeping distance from the wound. She leaned in close, her button-nose inches from his collarbone. So light he almost shivered at the touch, her fingers trailed near it, tracing whorls around it, but never actually touching the stitches.

“Does it hurt?” she said almost inaudibly, her voice a mere scratch.

“Not much. I got lucky,” Bellamy breathed, unable to look away from her wrinkled forehead and golden hair just below his chin.

Without warning, she closed the distance she had been keeping and pressed her lips gently against the bare skin just below his collarbone, her mouth warm against his flesh.

Something threatened to break loose in Bellamy that he knew he could not allow. Heat radiated in his chest, and his heart lurched violently against his ribcage.

He was afraid to move.

He was afraid to breathe.

His eyes fluttered as she broke away. Neither of them looked at each other as she rebuttoned his shirt. Both of them pretended not to notice that her fingers trembled.

Instead of leaning away like he expected her to, she slumped down, wrapping her arms around his midsection and tucking her head in the crook of his good shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” came a whisper a moment later.

Bellamy swallowed thickly. “Nothing to be sorry for, princess,” he replied softly, dragging his hand up and down her sweatshirt-clad back. “I mean it.”

His heart was still pounding erratically in his chest. There was no way she didn’t feel it, her cheek pressed against him inches away from it.

Her hands still trembled slightly where they were wrapped around him, and he reached down for one, aiming to press a kiss into her palm, against her fluttering pulse.

He froze at what he saw, and she froze in turn at his reaction for a moment before trying to pull her wrist from his grip. He held on tighter.

“Clarke, what is this?” Angry red welts blistered the center of her palm, the skin shiny and taut.

Her fingers closed into a fist over it. He felt her body flinch against his. It must be hurting her a lot more than she let on.

“It was an accident,” she rasped out, pulling away from him. “I was reaching to turn off the lamp without looking and I overshot it.”

Bellamy gritted his teeth. He suddenly realized that he was angry.

“Was it, Clarke?” His voice came out more stern than he expected it to.

He guessed she either didn’t remember what she promised him that night after the rave, or she hadn’t meant it.

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, scooting even further away.

Bellamy tried to soften his voice. “It matters, and you _know _it.”

He saw her jaw clench as she looked pointedly away from him.

“I really need to shower,” she said suddenly, sliding down off the bed. “I look like garbage.”

“Make yourself at home,” she called over her shoulder, not looking back.

As he heard the bathroom door shut and the water begin to run, Bellamy sighed, burying his face in his hands.

He could protect her from bullets. He couldn’t protect her from herself.

…

Bellamy was sitting on the sofa - reading as usual - when Clarke traipsed back into the bedroom. She hadn’t bothered to put on makeup - she never did anymore, except for public appearances - and she couldn’t help but feel that she looked a little like a drowned rat, with her wet hair combed smooth against her neck. She felt a little like one too.

Bellamy didn’t look up as her footsteps shuffled against the thick rug. His face was impossible to read.

The pit of Clarke’s stomach ached. She’d just gotten him back. She didn’t want to fight.

Quietly, she came up behind him and draped her arms around his shoulders, her wrist grazing his throat as she carefully avoided any contact with where she’d seen the stitched up wound earlier.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she murmured, pressing her flushed cheek to his.

After a second or two of stillness, she felt him lean in to the touch.

Sighing, she let go, ruffling his hair as she circled around to sink down on the opposite end of the couch.

She picked up her physics textbook from the coffee table and stretched her legs, shoving her wool sock-clad toes underneath Bellamy’s thigh for warmth. Gently, he took her ankles in his hands and tugged them onto his lap.

Smiling a little, Clarke crossed her legs at the ankles and settled in.

After a quarter of an hour had passed, Bellamy suddenly spoke up.

“Clarke, I’m going to say something, and I want you to try not to get mad.”

_Oh boy._ Clarke’s shoulders slumped. “What is it, Bellamy?”

“I think...I think it would be a good idea if you talked to someone professional about what’s going on.”

Clarke felt her cheeks go red. “Not you too, Blake.” She grit her teeth, avoiding his eyes.

“Me too? Who else has told you that?” Bellamy cocked his head questioningly. “And if more than one person has brought it up, don’t you think you should seriously consider it?”

“No.” Clarke huffed. It was wildly embarrassing talking about this to him out in the open. “And my mom suggested it. She thinks that I might need counseling after nearly being assassinated.” She rolled her eyes.

“Most people would,” Bellamy countered, his hand coming down to rest on her crossed ankles. He squeezed them gently.

“I’m fine. I’m not afraid of death.” She laughed humorlessly.

Bellamy frowned. “You should be,” he said quietly. “And besides, that isn’t even the reason _I’m_ suggesting it.”

Clarke’s stomach soured, thinking of the look on his face when he’d seen the blistered skin on her hand.

“I don’t need to work through my feelings with a professional. I know exactly how I feel. And nothing a therapist can say or do will be able to fix why I feel the way I feel.”

She saw Bellamy’s shoulders drop in defeat.

“A shrink can’t go back in time and make my mother lose the general election,” Clarke said, trying to pull some finality into her tone. She didn’t want to talk about this anymore.

Bellamy’s gaze dropped to his hands. “No, I guess they can’t. Not any more than I can make you go.”

Clarke exhaled, relieved that he seemed to be allowing the subject to drop.

“Just…” he began, rubbing his thumb up and down the ridges of her tube sock, “be good to yourself, won’t you? You deserve that.”

The softness in his eyes almost made her believe that what he said was true.

“I’ll do my best,” she replied finally, flashing him a smile that she didn’t feel.

…

Bellamy couldn’t help but feel that over the past few weeks, things had begun to look up. His shoulder had healed remarkably well, and he had almost complete full range of motion back in that side of his body. Clarke, too, seemed to be improving -- she’d started getting out of bed earlier, and he hadn’t noticed any new incisions or burns anywhere on her beautiful skin. He tried not to think about what he couldn’t see. He prayed that there was nothing.

He strode down the hallway, patting his holster to make sure his gun was in place. His shift was starting much later than usual today -- he’d agreed to take the night shift from Hector just this once; apparently his daughter had an overnight basketball tournament down in Richmond this weekend.

Bellamy checked his watch: 9:58 PM. He was two minutes early.

He rapped gently on Clarke’s door with the back of his hand.

“Hey,” her voice called from inside, faint and far away.

Bellamy pushed open the door, taken aback by how silently it glided. Someone must have finally greased the hinges.

Clarke was sitting on the rug by the crackling fireplace, a small can of WD-40 by her side and a half-empty bottle of cinnamon whiskey on the other.

“Party on a Saturday night,” she said wryly, lifting the bottle up in a toast to him after he’d closed the door. “_And_ I fixed the door.”

“Drinking alone on a Saturday night doesn’t quite add up to a party, Clarke,” Bellamy replied, shaking his head.

Clarke took a small swig, coughing as she swallowed it down. “I don’t _have _to do it alone,” Clarke said teasingly, wiggling the neck of the bottle at him. Bellamy could tell by her voice that she was a little tipsy, but definitely not drunk yet.

“Clarke, come on, you know I can’t drink on the job. _Especially_ not this job.” Bellamy leveled a tired glare in her direction. He thought she’d quit trying to talk him into this months ago.

“Bellamy, it’s _late._ It’s _Saturday._ Nothing happens on Saturday night shifts, and you have the next 12 hours to let it wear off.”

Bellamy was wavering. He couldn’t lie to himself and say he wouldn’t love to let loose for one night after the last few months he’d had. After almost _dying_.

He just shouldn’t do it _here._

But Clarke couldn’t join him anywhere else, really.

“Come on. You look like you hold your liquor pretty well, anyways.”

Bellamy ducked his head, grinning. “I do, actually.”

Clarke grinned back at him. She held up the bottle, nudging his leg with her elbow as he stood over her.

Shaking his head at what he was about to do, Bellamy tugged the bottle out of her hand and took a swig. The whiskey burned deep in his throat, amplified by the cinnamon.

“A Fireball Siren,” Bellamy smiled, shaking his head down at her mischievous expression.

“Siren?” Clarke asked, squinting in confusion. “I don’t remember going ‘wee-woo-wee-woo’ any time in recent-”

“Like in mythology,” Bellamy laughed, sucking down another couple ounces of whiskey.

“Fucking nerd,” Clarke mocked, elbowing his leg again. She reached up toward him, fluttering her fingers in lieu of asking for her bottle back.

Bellamy conceded it, and she tipped her head back as she drank.

. . .

“Clarke, you don’t need to finish the bottle, come on!” Bellamy leaned forward, swaying only slightly, trying to snatch the last of the whiskey from her. Not for himself -- he was pleasantly warm and only slightly tipsy. But because she didn’t need any more.

“Fine,” she groaned, drawing out the word. She was a bit more tipsy than he was. Lazily screwing the cap back on the bottle, she shoved it under her bed.

“Don’t you think life would be easier as a drunk here, though?” she piped up suddenly, reaching back under the bed.

“No!” Bellamy grabbed her knee, smacking it gently. “No.” He leaned away as she gave up on the bottle.

“You are more than what you have become. Remember who you are,” Bellamy said solemnly, wagging a finger in Clarke’s direction.

Clarke let out a snort, wheezing. “Oh my god, Bellamy. Isn’t that from _The Lion King_?”

Bellamy crossed his arms over his chest, huffing. “Yes, but it’s a good line!”

Clarke’s shoulders were still shaking in silent laughter. Suddenly, she stilled, her eyes widening.

“Holy shit, do you know what we should do?” Clarke leaned her elbows on her knees, her eyebrows shooting toward her hairline.

Bellamy shook his head back at her, nonplussed.

“We should go to the Oval Office! It’s totally empty and unmonitored right now!”

Bellamy was still sober enough to know that that was a bad idea.

“Uh, I don’t think so, Clarke. We’re definitely not supposed to be in there. I’m pretty sure that even _you_ count as a security breach in the president’s office.”

Clarke frowned. “Tonight is the _perfect_ night, Bellamy! I overheard Hector on the radio talking with the head of security and apparently they’re replacing the security cameras around it over the weekend! There aren’t any active ones near it right now.”

Bellamy wrinkled his nose, sniffing. It kind of _was_ an uncannily good opportunity.

Before he could say anything, Clarke had hopped to her feet. “Let’s go!” She reached a hand down to him. He noticed that the burns had faded considerably -- her hand was just a faint, wrinkly pink now.

He was getting worse and worse at saying no to her.

“Fine,” he surrendered, taking her hand.

…

Clarke grinned as she flicked a dim light on in the oval room, careful not to light up the place as brightly as it usually was.

She was never allowed in here. She was allowed so little into the West Wing in general that Bellamy, more familiar with it, had ended up guiding them.

It was just as pompous as she’d expected it to be.

“So stripey. So oval,” Clarke remarked, wandering over to the ornate wooden desk that her mother occupied from time to time.

She turned to see Bellamy looking around, his hands casually resting on his hips.

“I thought it would be more inspiring, standing in here,” he said slowly, his eyes surveying the room carefully. “But I feel nothing.”

“Illusions of grandeur,” Clarke said wryly, her tongue heavy.

“Illusions of patriotism,” Bellamy amended.

Smirking, Clarke lowered herself into the chair behind the desk.

“I’m your president now,” she announced, folding her hands on top of her desk. Just like her mother always did.

Though Clarke had been making light of the situation, an eerie feeling suddenly crept over her, sobering her ever so slightly.

Something about sitting at that desk made it feel like the weight of the world was descending upon her.

Clarke supposed that for a president, sometimes it really was.

Shaking herself, she sat back, examining the desk. Not really thinking about it, she popped open one of the drawers.

“Uh, Clarke, what are you doing?” Clarke waved away Bellamy’s voice, looking at the stack of papers in the drawer.

They were presidential memos.

She definitely shouldn’t go through them.

She picked up the stack, flipping through them. Nothing really caught her eye.

Until.

Clarke began reading more carefully, an uneasy feeling spreading in the pit of her stomach.

The more she read, the more she felt like she would be sick.

Her hands shaking, she laid some papers from the middle of the stack out flat on the desk, one after the other.

She whipped her phone out, taking pictures of each document as carefully as she could, despite her unsteady hands.

“Clarke, what the hell are you doing?” Bellamy’s voice pierced through her panicked haze.

“Bellamy,” she whispered, her voice cracking in her throat. Bellamy quickly crossed the room, his dark form swimming in her peripheral vision.

“Read these,” she pointed at the documents laid out in front of them.

“Clarke, this is _definitely_ a breach in security protocol for both of us-”

“Read them,” she choked out, her voice stronger this time.

She watched his face as he scanned through each document, his expression growing more and more incredulous.

“Oh my god,” he muttered in a low voice, shellshocked.

He met her eyes, his wide in alarm.

“They’re framing countries in the middle east for airstrikes that _we’re_ commanding to make it look like they’re the ones attacking each other.”

“To boost our economy through arms deals,” Clarke bit out, feeling bile rise in her throat. “Innocent people are dying. Just to make our country richer.”

Beside her, Bellamy pressed a hand to his forehead, making his hair flip up and curl skyward.

“Clarke,” he said suddenly, a new tension in his voice. “Why did you take pictures of those documents?”

“As proof,” she answered quietly, her tone flat.

“Clarke, no,” Bellamy’s voice rose.

“I have to, Bellamy.” Clarke had known it from the moment she read it.

“Dammit, Clarke,” Bellamy said in a strangled voice, running his fingers through his hair haphazardly. “Do you know what happens to whistleblowers? Edward Snowden hasn’t been back to this country in years. He will probably never be able to come back. His life here -- it’s ruined. Over.”

“I’ll try to find a way so that they don’t know it was me,” Clarke said, feeling much more sober now than she was five minutes ago.

“They’ll find out, Clarke.” panic rose in Bellamy’s voice.

“Maybe not,” Clarke answered monotonously. She shoved her phone back into her pocket.

Clarke, still feeling at least some effects of the alcohol, closed her eyes, unable to stop thinking of that stupid kids’ movie line that Bellamy had quoted at her earlier.

_You are more than what you have become. Remember who you are._

Innocent people would continue to die for her country’s profit if she didn’t try to go public with this.

This was something important that she could do. This was something _good_ that she could do. Something that she could control. Something that she might be able to fix.

“God, Clarke. Your fingerprints are all over every single one of the pages you touched.” Bellamy’s voice trembled slightly as he stepped nervously from one foot to the other.

Clarke jumped as he moved suddenly in front of her, gathering them up in his hands. He grabbed the whole stack from the drawer, folding them over and shoving them down into his deep pants pocket.

“Bellamy, what-?”

“How sensitive are the smoke alarms in your room?” Bellamy asked.

Clarke frowned. “Not very. I once set some waffles on fire on a hot plate in there last spring and they didn’t even go off. Why?”

“Because we’re going to burn these.”

Back in her room, Bellamy went straight to her nightstand, picking up the lighter. His expression was dark as his gaze flickered over it and the candle beside it.

“Come on,” he said, striding quickly toward her bathroom.

Clarke followed silently, her head heavy from the whiskey that she felt like they’d drank decades ago, not hours.

Bellamy opened the glass door to her deep, tiled shower and turned the water on, cranking it all the way over on the hot side. After a minute, the bathroom began filling with thick steam. Bellamy, glancing furtively around, shut the bathroom door and drew the folded memos from his pocket.

“I’ll do it,” Clarke offered suddenly. She didn’t want Bellamy stuck in any part of this.

She wasn’t going to let him go down with her.

“Sorry if I don’t really trust you with fire right now,” Bellamy retorted somewhat sharply. It stung.

He glanced up, and he must have seen something betrayed in her face, because his expression softened. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke murmured, swiping away at the moisture that was gathering on her forehead amongst all of the steam.

“This is definitely a federal crime,” Bellamy said wearily, shaking his head as he flicked the lighter on, a flame appearing at its tip. Exhaling sharply, he held the flame to the corner of the pages. It took less than a second for them to catch. He kicked the small, empty metal wastebasket near the sink toward him and squatted down, holding the blackening papers over it until the fire grew close to his fingers. He dropped the bundle down into the wastebasket, and they watched it burn together silently.

When the memos were reduced to nothing but smoking ash, Clarke watched Bellamy pick up the wastebasket and hold it under the shower’s stream. The remnants of the pages trickled out onto the shower floor, the gritty black of them swirling toward the drain and down. When the water finally ran clear, Bellamy reached in to turn the knob over to “off”.

His gaze shifted to Clarke. She stared back, feeling surprisingly numb.

Her mind was made up.

She had to put a stop to this if she could.

Just not tonight.

Clarke slowly turned away, mindlessly shuffling to the sink to brush her teeth.

With a long look, Bellamy shook his head and started back out toward the bedroom.

When Clarke finally emerged, he was sitting on the bench at the foot of her bed.

She said nothing as she passed him, hauling herself up into the high bed and rolling under the blankets, her head hitting the pillow hard.

They were silent for a moment.

“Clarke, there’s nothing I can say to stop you from doing this, is there?”

Clarke rolled over to face him.

“Don’t you think this needs to be stopped before more innocent people die?”

Bellamy ducked his head. “Of course I do, Clarke. But there has to be another way. A way that doesn’t ruin your life.”

“You don’t know that will happen,” Clarke said slowly, her headache growing. “Besides,” she laughed bitterly, “my life is kind of a nightmare already.”

“There _has_ to be another way-” Bellamy repeated, his hands spread in frustration.

“There isn’t another way that won’t just hurt someone else, and you know it,” Clarke answered, staring him down. She knew it. She’d already thought about it.

There wasn’t another way.

Bellamy’s jaw clenched visibly.

“It’s okay, Bellamy,” she said softly. His eyes snapped back to hers. She was surprised at the wildness she saw in them -- the worry. “It has to happen.”

“I can’t talk about this anymore,” he ground out, his voice thin, on the verge of breaking.

He looked away. Clarke’s chest ached at the loss of his gaze.

“I can’t sleep in here,” he said suddenly, rising from the bench.

“You can’t just sleep outside,” she spoke up, wishing she could stretch her hand out to him and pull him under the blankets with her.

“Where does Hector usually sleep?” He asked dully, his back to her.

“Sitting room. The couch is a futon,” Clarke answered tiredly. “The pillow and blankets are in the trunk next to it.”

Bellamy nodded, still not turning back to look at her.

“Good night, Clarke,” he muttered, strolling toward the connecting passageway to the sitting room and closing the door behind him.

“Good night,” she whispered, too late for him to hear.

…

It had been two days since they’d found the airstrike memos. Any time he wasn’t at work, Bellamy had been scrolling through breaking news on social media. He had no idea when she was going to drop the evidence. He didn’t even know how.

When he’d asked, she’d refused to say anything, telling him she didn’t want him implicated in any way.

Bellamy wondered if it made him a bad person to wish she’d change her mind.

He knew he shouldn’t value one life that he held dearly over hundreds of others.

But he was only human.

And he did.

Bellamy clocked in, waiting for Hector to bring Clarke down to the doors in front of the North Lawn driveway, where the motorcade was idling. Apparently her mother had arranged an outing for Clarke as a publicity stunt -- a way to soothe her voter base after the turmoil of the assassination attempt or something.

A visit to the National Cathedral.

Bellamy couldn’t imagine anything that was more obviously pandering, but he was just here to do his job.

Clarke, shadowed by Hector, appeared moments later. She wasn’t particularly dressed for church, but she didn’t seem to be pushing any boundaries either. Black henley, black leggings, black boots, a gray wool coat, and a deep blue scarf. Her hair was tied up in a bun with some ribbon, but it didn’t look like it would last very long.

“Ready to see some flying buttresses?” She said by way of greeting, her mouth half-twisting upward.

“Always,” Bellamy replied. He wasn’t raised religious, and he’d never actually been to the cathedral. But he’d never turn down a chance at some gothic-style architecture.

As the car pulled up to the cathedral lawn, Bellamy was impressed with how big it actually was. He thought that maybe if peasants saw something like that towering over their villages in the middle ages, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to believe in a sovereign god.

Bellamy noticed Clarke straining her neck, leaning back to stare up at the spires of the church as they walked closer to the entrance.

“It’s imposing, huh?” She said to him, tugging her coat tighter across her middle. Despite the sun, the winter was still cold. “Do you think the house would miss me if I stayed here and became a bell ringer?”

Bellamy shook his head, glancing up at the bell towers. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

Clarke frowned, her eyes losing focus. “I don’t know. Sometimes I kind of feel like a ghost to everyone else in the house.”

“I imagine a ghost would be less of a nuisance,” Bellamy teased, reaching out to knock against her shoulder.

She squinted at him, wrinkling her nose half-heartedly.

As they stepped into the entrance hall, Bellamy expected silence. They’d notified him that he was the only bodyguard attending to her today, as they’d had the cathedral cleared of all other visitors while Clarke would be there.

But it wasn’t silent.

“The boys’ choir is practicing this afternoon. Do enjoy your visit, Miss Griffin!” The small, curly-haired older woman behind the visitor’s desk smiled, handing Clarke a colorful brochure before waving them forward.

Harmonies blended, echoing off the cavernous vaulted ceiling as they stepped through to the nave. It felt like miles to the pulpit, and Clarke caught her breath beside him as she tiptoed inside.

The morning sun streamed through the rose windows at the far end of the nave and through the stained glass of the cloisters and transepts, washing the room with golden rays and watercolors.

The hair on Bellamy’s arms stood up.

He wasn’t religious, but this place, at this moment, made him want to believe in _something_.

He noticed Clarke glancing around them furtively. No one was in the cathedral other than the practicing choir, who were hundreds of feet away from them and hidden off to the left.

“Let’s go this way,” she said in a hushed voice, and Bellamy felt her warm fingers link through his.

Clarke led him away from the central aisle and behind the supporting pillars, down the covered aisle that led to the cloisters and the transepts. The sun streaming through the smaller stained glass windows painted Clarke in brilliant blues, pinks, and golds, swathing over her already half-fallen hair. Remembering something he’d been told in the outing briefing, he let go of her hand and dug into his pocket for his phone. At the loss of his touch, Clarke ripped her eyes from the stonework of the vaulting and glanced back at him. The light caught in the stray hairs framing her face, creating a glowing halo around her.

“What are you doing?” She tilted her head at him.

“They said to get pictures they could use for press and social media. The point of this entire visit, apparently.” Bellamy snapped a few photos in a row. Bringing his phone closer to his face, he examined what he’d got.

He wasn’t going to say she looked like an angel -- that was _way_ too cliché, especially given that they were literally in a place of worship.

But she definitely look like _something_ ethereal. Something someone couldn’t easily look away from.

Bellamy stopped his line of thinking as he quickly emailed the photos off to a press staffer.

Clarke stepped up into an alcove, studying the stained glass window inside it, her back to Bellamy.

The voices in the choir swelled behind them, reaching toward the lofty arches at the top of the cathedral.

“Bellamy, do you think this is what it’s like? When you die,” Clarke’s voice was soft, and she didn’t turn to face him as she spoke.

Bellamy stepped into the alcove behind her.

“Like this, all soft colors and light and angelic voices there to greet you if you’ve managed to outweigh all the bad you’ve done in your life with the good.” Her finger traced lightly against the stone wall by the window.

“I don’t think there’s anything there to greet you after death, regardless of what you’ve done,” Bellamy replied.

Clarke finally turned to face him. “That’s a bit bleak, don’t you think?”

Bellamy shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not really sure what I believe. What about you?”

Clarke shook her head, fiddling with the fringe of her scarf. “I don’t really know anymore.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes gently roving his face. They were only inches apart. The colorful light framed her face still, and it swam in his vision, intoxicating him.

Bellamy swallowed thickly.

Something about this was going to destroy his life someday, somehow.

Maybe it already had.

“Let’s go up to the top,” Clarke said suddenly, breaking the silence. She pushed past him gently, turning to beckon him along.

He followed. As he always did.

By the time they’d reached the top of one of the towers, the sky had begun to cloud over. The wind was absolutely brutal. As they approached the balustrade, the ribbon flew loose from Clarke’s hair, fluttering in the wind and slowly sinking out of sight. Her hair whipped around her face, wavy golden locks of it streaming in every direction.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she grumbled into the wind, struggling to tug her hair back from her face.

“I think you just committed blasphemy,” Bellamy noted dryly, earning himself a light punch to the arm.

“It’s like the top of the world,” Clarke said, smiling as she leaned slightly toward the tower wall.

“I’m pretty sure the Washington Monument is like, twice as high up as this is,” Bellamy offered skeptically. “Aren’t you cold in this wind?”

Clarke shook her head. “It’s nice to feel the fresh air on my face,” she said, her eyes falling shut, her hands gripping onto the rough stone. “I might not get to much in the future,” she said somberly, her eyes blinking slowly back open as she surveyed the brown, barren forest below.

Bellamy’s stomach sank. “So you haven’t changed your mind, then,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “It has to be done. Soon.”

A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye, whipped away by the wind almost before Bellamy even saw it.

“Hey.” Bellamy’s chest ached for her. He reached up, gently tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I know you won’t tell me anything, but please, _please_ try as hard as you can to keep it from being traced back to you, all right?”

Clarke nodded, shooting him a tight, faltering smile. “I’m going to try. You know me, Bellamy. You know I don’t want the consequences it’ll bring.” Another tear slipped out, this one catching in her eyelashes. “I _really_ don’t.”

She reached up to hastily swipe it away. “But if I can stop innocent people from dying, I will.”

Bellamy knew she probably didn’t have a good chance of staying undiscovered by the alphabet soup of government agencies, or even just White House security tech itself. He knew it, and he knew that she knew it, too.

He wished to god he’d never agreed to let her go down to her mother’s office that night.

Somehow, his well-intentioned actions kept churning out unforeseen disasters. He wasn’t even sure his intentions mattered anymore, however good they might have been. He could have stopped so many things. But he hadn’t. And now he had to watch pieces of his life go down in flames. Other people’s lives go down in flames.

His jaw worked as the self-loathing crept up on him, whispering in his ear, taunting him.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around him, squeezing gently around his waist. He didn’t know what in his face had tipped Clarke off, but clearly she’d noticed something.

And she was trying to comfort him.

When right now, it should be him, trying to comfort her.

So he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer as he pressed his lips against the top of her head.

They stayed that way for a while, the icy wind forgotten.

…

“When’s game night start?” Bellamy asked, picking pineapple off his pizza slice and dropping it onto Clarke’s.

“In a few hours,” Clarke answered, shoving a handful of pretzel sticks into her mouth. “Monty’s coming up after his dinner shift is over and Wells’s train gets in by eight o’clock, I think.”

Bellamy had come up with the idea of game night a day or two ago, and Clarke had agreed, knowing he was just trying to lift her spirits. It was sweet really.

And he was right.

She should be spending time with her friends now in case the worst ended up happening.

She hadn’t really thought about what would happen with Bellamy if she ended up getting discovered as the source. She’d made him swear on his own life that he wouldn’t implicate himself, and she knew she sure as hell wouldn’t rat him out.

She didn’t think he would get fired. Maybe reassigned to a different area of security in case she was shipped off somewhere. She didn’t really know. And she didn’t want to think about being separated from him.

He’d been more helpful than she’d expected, trying to keep her in the clear. Yesterday, he’d taken her laptop and phone off to Raven after making sure that Clarke still had the photos that she’d needed. Clarke had uploaded the photos to an anonymous google photo drive a couple of days ago, using a VPN so that if anyone tracked the IP address, it would show up as someone uploading from Hong Kong Disneyland.

Apparently Bellamy had managed to come up with something good enough for Raven to agree to wipe all traces of the images from Clarke’s devices, as well as mask the security footage of them heading toward the West Wing that night so that the halls all looked empty.

The way that Bellamy vaguely explained what he’d said to Raven led Clarke to believe that he’d made it sound...clandestine in nature.

He’d probably told her the photos were nudes or something, and that they’d snuck off for a drunken romp in the oval office.

Clarke felt the blush rising in her cheeks just thinking about it.

Thunder rolled in the distance, breaking her reverie.

_And she’d thought that weather matching your mood was just a bad literary device_.

“I love storms,” Bellamy said suddenly around a mouthful of cheese.

“Okay, Mr. Heathcliff,” Clarke retorted, grinning wryly.

“I understand that reference and I resent that comparison,” Bellamy shot back, hunting around him for a napkin.

“Just don’t go digging up your girl’s grave and embracing her skeleton once she’s dead, okay?” Clarke shuddered for dramatic effect.

Bellamy rolled his eyes at her.

Clarke checked her watch. It was almost 6 PM. The evening news cycles were about to begin.

She suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. She set her plate down by the pizza box on the coffee table and got to her feet, walking over to the window.

Spring was still a while off, and the sky was nearly dark. A brief pop of lightning illuminated the horizon in the distance.

Clarke couldn’t pretend with herself. She was terrified.

She knew that whistleblowers, even if not legally prosecuted, were often harassed or made infamous for decades afterward.

She was already infamous, but she’d learned in the past year or two that things could always get worse.

And worst case, she could be starting a war.

True, she hoped that releasing these memos would stop the airstrikes, and any warfare that the US was trying to goad these other countries into by mistake.

But there was a decent chance that the release of said memos would also turn those countries’ ire toward her own.

She prayed to god that since the airstrikes hadn’t actually been implemented yet that the situation could be de-escalated.

Clarke didn’t know exactly when the news was going to break, but she expected it to be either tonight or tomorrow.

Through her VPN, she’d anonymously contacted a reporter at a national news outlet with the images. She refused to give her identity, unwilling to let the reporter take on any hot water for her. The reporter had contacted her back, asking for proof that Clarke was actually a “white house insider.” Clarke had sent back a photo of a notecard being held up in front of the ground floor’s Center Hall with a dated drawing of a stick figure horse on it -- the symbol the reporter had requested.

Satisfied, the reporter confirmed that Clarke would remain a protected source, as the people had a right to the information that would be given.

And that was that.

It was out of her hands now.

Clarke bit down hard on her lip as the dark landscape outside began to blur.

She willed the tears in her eyes not to fall. She was so tired of crying. Clarke tilted her head up, determined not to let them slip out.

Quietly, Bellamy appeared by her side, his arms folded as he gazed out the window. His elbow grazed against her arm lightly.

“What if I did the wrong thing, Bellamy?” She asked, despising the slight wobble to her voice. “What if by trying to save people and stop a war, I just started another one?”

“So you did it, then,” Bellamy said solemnly, shifting his weight.

Clarke nodded, not turning to look at him.

“How did you do it, Clarke? When will the story hit?”

Clarke shook her head. “I’ve told you, Bellamy, the less you know, the better.”

“It’ll be soon, won’t it,” he said, not asking but stating. “It has to be soon.” He turned away from the window, pacing along the wall.

Suddenly, he spoke up again. “Clarke, you know I’m not happy about this. But whatever you’ve done -- it has to be better than the alternative. It has to be better than us profiting off of the deaths of innocent people under a false pretense. Lord knows there’s enough of that already in the world.”

His words soothed Clarke, but only a little.

“I just wish it had been someone else that had found them.”

Clarke’s heart sank. He’d literally been shot on the job just last month protecting her, and now she was making things difficult for him _again_. He didn’t deserve this.

But it had to be done.

His hand on her shoulder interrupted her heartbreaking meditation. “Hey, let’s go watch a movie up in the solarium while we wait for the others, huh?”

She looked up at him, nodding. Maybe it would be good to get out of this room. And up there, Bellamy could watch his beloved thunderstorm roll in.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten that it’s my turn to pick,” he piped up, grabbing the pizza box off the coffee table as they headed for the door.

…

“Eight of spades,” Monty said stoically, laying his card face down on the pile. The four of them looked round at each other silently, suspicion hanging in the air.

Clarke’s bare foot jiggled nervously against the solarium’s carpet. Bellamy lifted a hand, planning to rest it on her knee to still it, when he remembered where he was. He curled his hand into a fist and dropped it back into his lap.

Bellamy squinted in Monty’s direction, making a decision.

“Bullshit,” he called out, nodding at Monty’s card.

Monty returned his stare, his own expression lifeless. For a second or two.

“God_dammit_, Bellamy!” Monty flipped over his own card, revealing it to actually be a six of hearts. “Now I have to go and pick up half the damn deck!”

Bellamy smirked in his direction.

Wells shook his head across from him. “Don’t you have, like, an unfair advantage over us all or something? You’re in the fucking secret service, man.”

Bellamy shrugged. “For what it’s worth, my poker face is usually not that great.”

“Can confirm,” Clarke said dryly from the other cushion on the loveseat, tucking her leg up underneath her.

Wells took a sip of hot cocoa. Monty had brought up a large canteen of it to keep them all cozy during the storm. Rain still pelted the windows, shining against the black of the evening.

“We could always play Go Fish,” Wells proposed, grinning cheekily.

Monty groaned. “That game is _so _third grade.”

“It’s still amusing and fun for every player,” Wells retorted, mock-offended.

Clarke had opened her mouth to jump into the conversation when a klaxon-like sound suddenly began to issue from the small speaker attached to the ceiling above the door, startling them all. Monty’s hot cocoa sloshed over the side of his cup and onto the dated beige carpet.

“What the hell,” Wells blurted, pushing up off the armchair rocker he’d been lounging in.

Bellamy felt Clarke grow absolutely still next to him.

A suited security staffer appeared on the ramp to the solarium, stationing himself in the doorway.

“Folks, I’ve been asked to tell you that the White House residence and both wings are currently on lockdown until further notice. Some of you may be dismissed after interviewing tonight, but I must warn you, there’s no guarantee that security will be able to get to you this evening. If not, sleeping quarters and necessities will be provided.” The officer nodded perfunctorily at them and turned to exit.

Bellamy felt Clarke’s knee shake as it dug into his hip.

“Wait,” he called after the suited staffer. “Can you tell us why?”

The staffer glanced around the room, sizing up the four of them.

“Some top secret information has been leaked from inside the White House. That’s all I’m at liberty to say. Mr. Blake, I will be monitoring this floor, but I trust you will keep an eye on this room.”

He turned on his heel and walked back down the ramp, stationing himself at the far end of it.

Bellamy felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He looked over to see that Clarke’s hand of cards had fallen from her fingers to the coffee table, splayed every which way.

He knew this was going to happen, but it didn’t prepare him for it actually happening.

“Holy shit,” Monty said finally, grasping toward the remote that was hidden in the coffee table drawer. “I wonder what’s happened. Maybe it’s on the news…?” Monty clicked the power button, waiting for the old, boxy television screen to light up before he began to scroll through the channels.

“Does this happen often?” Wells asked slowly to Clarke.

“Hardly ever,” she answered, her voice tight.

Bellamy suddenly wished that they were the only two in the room. That there wasn’t a security officer at the end of the hall.

So that he could hold her hand and tell her she’s okay and no one would think twice about it.

Monty clicked onto a cable news channel and set the remote aside.

A woman dressed in a navy pantsuit at a newsdesk appeared above a scrolling headline:

_“BREAKING NEWS: WHITE HOUSE LEAK SHOWS EVIDENCE OF US AIRSTRIKE PLANS TO ENCOURAGE ARMS DEALS.”_

Wells let out a low whistle.

“...tonight we are learning from an anonymous source inside the White House that the current administration has planned airstrikes on middle eastern countries in which they would be disguised as drones from those countries, not our own, in order to encourage turmoil in an already-unstable region, which would in turn boost the United States’ profits from international arms deals. Evidence of such plans were given in the form of photographed memos from the Oval Office itself. Though we won’t be showing those photographs tonight, we can confirm that they are legitimate, and we will be telling you exactly what’s in them coming up at the top of the next hour.” The woman shuffled the papers on her desk as the camera panned out, the channel cutting to commercial.

“What the fuck,” Wells exlaimed, his voice laced with anger. “If this is real then we’re fucking _screwed_.”

“You really think so?” Clarke asked, her voice unsteady. She’d gotten up to pace in the narrow space behind the couch.

“I mean, yeah,” Wells responded. “This is going to put the country in _major_ hot water with the countries it was trying to frame, as well as, you know, The United Nations and pretty much any other international organization dedicated to keeping peace and order in the free world.”

Bellamy craned his neck to watch Clarke pace. All the color had left her lips.

“I don’t think we’ll go to war over it,” Wells continued, clasping his hands between his knees. “But it’s going to be tough going for us for the next few years if this is what it looks like.”

Bellamy felt his shoulders droop a little in relief. Wells spent a lot of time with his father, and he knew they talked policy a lot. Maybe Wells was right. There wouldn’t be a war.

Monty buried his chin in his palm thoughtfully. “Well, whoever blew the whistle...they saved those people from dying in airstrikes. I don’t blame them for coming forward. I couldn’t live with that on my conscience either.”

Bellamy silently thanked Monty for the comfort he didn’t know he was giving.

“Clarke,” Wells said suddenly, his gaze searching her. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Clarke spluttered, twisting her hands inside of her sweatshirt sleeves.

Wells frowned. “Because your mom at least knew about this, if not had a direct hand in it,” he said soberly, biting his lip.

Bellamy watched her carefully. She’d barely spoken about the fact that her own mother was involved with the airstrikes. He wasn’t sure if she hadn’t even processed it yet, or maybe she had and didn’t want to talk about it.

Bellamy stiffened as he saw the beginnings of a wobble in her chin.

“Oh my god,” Wells said suddenly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I wonder if my dad knew…”

Without a word, Clarke bolted for the outer door, her hair streaming behind her in a flash of gold as she slipped out the sliding glass and into the monsoon raging outside.

Bellamy gritted his teeth, on his feet immediately.

“It’s freezing out there,” Monty said quietly, his eyes trained on the inky blackness on the other side of the window.

“I’ll go get her,” Bellamy said, already heading for the door. “Freezing rain is just an occupational hazard at this point,” he shrugged back at the other two, trying to keep his face calmer than he felt.

Bellamy pushed himself between the sliding doors, trying to let as little rain in as possible. The downpour hit him like a bucket of ice, soaking his button-down immediately and freezing him to the bone.

“Dammit, Clarke,” he shouted into the night, catching sight of her on the far side of the promenade, barely visible from the windows of the solarium.

He hunched his shoulders as he walked quickly down the balcony, trying to keep under the eaves of the roof.

The rain was freezing, but at least the wind wasn’t blowing it sideways.

“Clarke,” he said, raising his voice over the pouring rain as he put a hand on her shoulder. She spun to face him, her skin pale under the rivulets of water running down her face, drenching her hair and clothing. Her lower lip trembled from the cold, or possibly something less weather-related.

“Clarke,” he repeated, rain dripping down his brow and into his eyes. “Listen, I know things are really tense right now, but you can’t stay out here like this.”

“What does it matter if I stay out here? Who really cares if I catch my death at this point, huh? Maybe it would be better off this way. I’ve done what I needed to do and I’m not particularly looking forward to sticking around to watch my life unravel.” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, but it didn’t stop her shoulders from shaking.

Bellamy stepped a few inches closer to her. “Clarke, you don’t know if they’ll even find out who released the memos. We don’t know what the future holds.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well even without this we both know I was going to be trapped in this house for years anyways.”

Bellamy glanced down, realizing that Clarke was still barefoot. Her ankles were shaking, violently. She was smaller than him, and she couldn’t take nearly freezing rain out here for much longer.

“Clarke,” he said once more, his voice pleading. Losing Octavia had made him realize that he wasn’t above begging when it came to people he couldn’t do without. “Please come inside.”

Her eyes locked onto his, her brows relaxing a bit over her troubled expression.

“What will you do, Bellamy? You can’t go home until the lockdown is lifted.”

Bellamy shrugged his shoulders, trying to ignore the numbing chill seeping deeper and deeper beneath his skin.

“Go inside and do my job,” he said with an amused huff. “Which, by the way, does _not_ include letting you get hypothermia.”

Something in Clarke’s eyes deadened. “Right,” she chattered, pushing wet strands of hair from her eyes. “Your job.” She repeated his words ruefully, tearing her gaze from his. “Gotta babysit the delinquent.” She pushed past him, heading for the warm light of the solarium windows.

Something in Bellamy’s mind snapped into place.

_She thought he only saw her as a means to a monthly paycheck._

“Wait,” he said hoarsely. It only took him two long strides to catch up with her. He grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him.

“Is that what you think, Clarke? You think I only see you as a job?” Bellamy ran a hand down his dripping face in frustration. He really shouldn’t be saying any of this, but his chest would burst if he didn’t make sure she knew the truth.

Her eyes gazed up at him sadly, rain trickling into her eyelashes like tears. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?” She pointed a trembling finger quickly between the two of them.

Bellamy stepped closer. He had a feeling that he was seconds away from doing something he couldn’t take back.

“Maybe it was on day one, Clarke. But you’ve been more than just a job for a long time now.”

Bellamy was afraid the frustration in his voice would push her away, but she leaned in closer to him, rain still pouring all around them.

“I didn’t jump in front of a bullet because of a_ job_,” he said quietly, so quiet that he wasn’t sure she’d heard him over the sheets of rain pelting the entire promenade.

He could feel his heart slamming in his throat when he realized her face was inches from his. The blood racing through his veins quickened as she closed the distance between them. For a moment he thought she was going to--

But she wrapped her arms around his neck, twisting her fingers through his dripping hair. He couldn’t tell if her shoulders were shaking now from the cold or from tears. He hoisted her up off her feet, holding what was left of her body heat up against his.

She pulled her face from the crook of his neck, resting her cheek against his cheek, sighing.

Bellamy knew there was a line he shouldn’t cross.

But he was going to toe it as hard as he could.

The soft skin of her neck was just within his lips’ reach, and he pressed a kiss to her throat, just beneath her jawline. He could feel her breath hitch beneath his mouth.

“You’re so important to me, Clarke,” he whispered, brushing her earlobe with his lips. She clung tighter to him. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He slowly lowered her back down to her toes. He wished he could push her against the wall and kiss away her doubt. But it was storming, and she was the president’s daughter, and he wished for impossible things.

“I don’t think you have the power to promise that anymore, Bellamy,” she said softly, her eyes a little red.

“Well I can start with getting you inside before you freeze to death,” he replied, pushing wet hair off her face and wishing he could push the sadness in her eyes away too. Her skin underneath his hand felt like ice. “Come on,” he encouraged, gently nudging her toward the sliding doors.

They both stepped inside, dripping copious amounts of rainwater onto the carpet. Bellamy was grateful for the dry warmth, but his chest felt oddly tight. Like his heart was in a holding pattern -- waiting on standby.

Only Monty was sitting inside, his eyes trained on the news on the television screen.

“Hey guys. Clarke, you okay?” Monty asked lightly, gesturing toward the couch next to him. “Damn,” he said, sizing them up better. “That must be one hell of a storm.”

Clarke evaded Monty’s question with one of her own. “Where’s Wells?”

Monty drained the last of the hot cocoa from the canteen. “They called him back for interrogation -- I mean interviewing, I guess.” He took a swig of the chocolate. “From what I overheard on Mr. Suit’s radio down there by the entrance, I think he was cleared to go home pretty quickly. Must not have been hard to clear a guy who’s almost never here. Me, on the other hand…” Monty trailed off, flashing a grimace.

“You’ll be fine, Monty,” Clarke reassured. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Thanks for having faith that I didn’t do it,” Monty smiled faintly. “Though I think I would have, if I’d known.” Clarke smiled back at him, shivering as she patted his shoulder.

Frowning, Bellamy got up to scout the room for blankets, towels -- anything to keep her warm. Bellamy would survive -- he was bigger than she was and more used to the cold. But the pallor of her skin and the shivers racking her limbs made him anxious.

If Clarke wasn’t going to care about her wellbeing, he was just going to have to care about it for her.

Clarke sat down on the couch slowly, stiffly. Her breathing was more shallow than Bellamy would have liked.

Even worse was the fact that shock and hypothermia shared multiple symptoms -- and she could be suffering from both.

“Mr. Green,” the security staffer’s voice suddenly called from the doorway. “You’re up to bat. Follow me to speak with another officer, please.”

“Hey,” Bellamy spoke up as Monty gave them one last nervous glance, following the suited officer. “Miss Griffin here really ought to get warmed up as soon as possible. There can’t be any harm in sending us back to her quarters at this time, right?”

The security officer shook his head, a twist of faint amusement on his lips. “Sorry, you must remain here for now. Maybe she shouldn’t have gone out in freezing rain?” The staffer raised his eyebrows, turning on his heel to usher Monty away.

Bellamy turned to glance at Clarke, who’d slumped back into the sofa cushion, tremors running through her body as her eyes fixated on the television screen. Listening to the news anchor repeat the rundown of the memo contents.

“Maybe we should watch something else,” Bellamy said grimly, reaching for the remote.

“No.” Clarke put trembling fingers out over his arm to halt him. “I should keep listening to this. I ought to.” Her fingers felt like blocks of ice to his already recovering skin.

Her clothes were still so wet that they were soaking the couch underneath her.

Bellamy shook his head to himself. “Clarke, I don’t think you’re okay,” he said, studying her. She moved so slowly as she turned to look at him.

“What?” she said, her voice wavering between exhaustion and confusion. The word slurred a little.

“I think you’re hypothermic,” he said, growing more and more uneasy. Gritting his teeth, his pulled his radio from his back pocket, wildly grateful that it was waterproof.

“Permission requested to return the sparrow to the nest,” he said urgently into the speaker.

“For what reason, Agent Blake?” a stern voice crackled back.

“Illness. She needs to be in bed right now,” he replied, keeping his eyes on Clarke. Her head tilted listlessly to the side, her eyes glassy.

“Permission granted,” the voice finally allowed. As Bellamy was reaching to return his radio to his pocket, the voice spoke again. “Agent Blake, temporary accommodation has been set up for you in the sparrow’s sitting room tonight. As we are still on lockdown, we need all agents on deck, you included. I trust this arrangement is acceptable to you.”

Bellamy’s lips twisted grimly. As much as he didn’t want to be held hostage, he didn’t want to go out in the rain again either, and someone needed to keep an eye on Clarke. Lord knows no one else would if he didn’t.

“Affirmative,” he radioed back, shoving the handheld into his damp pocket.

“Clarke, we’re going back to your room now, okay?” He rubbed her shoulder gently. “Can you walk?”

Clarke groaned in response, trying to lift herself up off the seat. Bellamy leaned down, gripping her elbows and pulling her to her feet. She was still shivering so much.

“Come on, I’ve got you,” he assured her, guiding her gently toward the ramp with his hand on her back. Her soaking hair dripped cold rainwater onto his sleeve.

She walked slowly, as if each step took a deeply concentrated effort.

When they reached the stairs that would lead right down to her bedroom, she came to a halt.

Her lips barely moved as she said something he couldn’t hear.

“What is it, Clarke?” He asked softly, moving his head closer to hers.

“I can’t,” she wheezed, inclining her head ever so slightly toward the staircase.

“That’s okay.” He bent down, wrapping his arms under her knees and behind her back. “You’ve got me for that.”

Bellamy carried her down the stairs in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder.

When they finally made it to her bedroom, he kicked the door shut behind him. As he strode over to her bed to lay her down, he caught a glimpse of the sitting room through the open doors, noticing bedding and extra clothing laid out on the couch.

Having deposited Clarke as carefully as possible on the bed in a sitting position, he thought back to his first aid training.

“Hot shower,” she muttered, shaking on the bed.

“Nope, sorry,” he said. “That’s against the first aid rules of hypothermia. The hot water will damage your skin.” Bellamy felt himself flush as he told her the next steps. “We’ve got to get you out of those clothes and wrapped up in something warm.”

He sized up the drenched sweatshirt and leggings she still had on. “Um, I can call a female staffer in,” he said uncomfortably, reaching for his radio.

“No,” Clarke groaned, trying to shake her head. “You.”

“Clarke, I-”

“I don’t want anyone else to see me,” she rasped out, her shoulders sagging.

Bellamy sobered as he remembered the scars hidden on her hips.

This was _so _inappropriate.

But it had to be done.

Bellamy let out a self-conscious huff of air. “Can you stand up for me, then? Not for long.”

Slowly, with great effort, Clarke heaved herself off the mattress, her hand reaching out to him for help.

“Top first,” he said brusquely. Clarke held her arms out in front of her limply, her eyes shining through their exhaustion.

Bellamy tugged each sleeve down her arm before reaching for the hem of the sweatshirt. He gently pulled it over her head, tossing it to the side.

The black bra she was wearing was soaked too.

He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Pants now,” he informed her. She pushed her waistband down to her thighs, but fatigue got the better of her, and her hands fluttered uselessly at her sides.

Bellamy couldn’t bring himself to look up at her as he carefully rolled each leg of black fabric down to her ankles, tugging her feet out of them one at a time.

“I don’t think I should keep going,” he said roughly, struggling to swallow.

“Cold,” was all she replied, her eyes feverish now.

“I know.” Bellamy tried to keep his eyes on her face, but his stomach went for a loop as he saw the swell of her breasts rise and fall with her shallow breaths. His stomach plummeted in an entirely different way when he caught sight of the haphazard pink marks that slashed across her hips. Sighing, he placed his hand on her cold, clammy shoulders, slowly rotating her so that she was facing away from him.

He stretched his fingers to try and smooth out the tremble in them as he unclasped her bra, slipping the straps down from her shoulders and watching the black fabric slip to the ground.

There his heart was, still in the holding pattern.

This shouldn’t be happening.

And he definitely never pictured it happening this way.

“Clarke,” his voice broke as he stepped back. He cleared his throat. “Clarke, this is wrong. I’m not gonna keep going.”

He saw her nod slowly. Her shoulder blades grew pronounced in front of him as she crossed her arms in front of her bare breasts, shivering violently. “Cold,” she whispered, unsteady on her feet.

Shaking himself, Bellamy hurried to the armchair, grabbing the thick quilt draped haphazardly over it. Still standing behind her, his eyes drank in the smooth, bare skin of her back before she draped the blanket over her shoulders, wrapping the corners of it so that they would overlap and cover her if she turned around.

He pulled the layers of blankets back on her bed, patting the mattress.

“Can you sit down for me?”

She complied, keeping the quilt tucked tightly around her.

He crossed the room and grabbed a thick pair of socks from her top dresser drawer.

“I’m going to put these on you, okay? I don’t care if you hate sleeping in socks. You have to wear them.” She gave him a tiny frown. He slipped the thick wool over her frozen, bare toes.

“Get under the blankets now. It’ll make you feel better,” he assured her, helping her draw her legs up and tucking them in. He drew the blankets up to her chest, annoyed that the room wasn’t warmer -- even with the fire crackling in the fireplace.

She gazed up at him, her expression unreadable in its softness. He reached a hand up to her face, gently rubbing her cheek with his thumb.

“Now listen, because this is very important, okay? I’m going to go warm up in the shower -- really fast. I’ll be right back, five minutes tops. But you’ve _got_ to stay awake in the meantime, okay?” Clarke blinked up at him, nodding almost imperceptibly. “I’m serious, Clarke. Can you do that?”

“I can do that,” she said, her voice small and rough in her throat.

Bellamy gave her a satisfied nod. “I’ll be right back, then.”

…

As the warmth of the swaddled quilts and blankets brought Clarke slowly back around, her mind began to swim.

The news was out.

The White House was on lockdown and actively performing a search for the whistleblower.

They could bust her at any moment.

Bellamy had just seen her basically naked.

And out in the rain he’d _kissed her neck_ and said things...things she was afraid to think too much about.

He’d said that he hadn’t jumped in front of a bullet just for a job.

And, as far as Clarke could tell, there weren’t really that many reasons someone might jump in front of a bullet for someone else.

Could it really be true that all this time he’d felt something that she felt, too?

She was probably reading too far into it.

They were friends -- of course they were friends. She cared about him. And now she knew -- he cared about her too. As more than an occupational hazard.

Did friends kiss each others’ necks, though?

Not like it mattered. It was still against staff policy to be anything more.

Besides, Bellamy had enough shit going on in his life.

He didn’t deserve having to deal with the baggage of a deranged whistleblower of a first daughter too.

It didn’t matter what she wanted.

Just like always.

But at least she knew there was someone on her side.

As if her thoughts summoned him, Bellamy emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a White House gift shop sweatshirt that looked like it was from 1994. His hair, despite still being wet from the shower, was already trying to curl, and his cheeks were flushed from the hot water.

Clarke was distracted by how...soft he looked. She almost never saw him out of uniform -- not since the trip up to the cabin for Christmas.

“Hey,” he said, walking immediately to her side.

“Hey,” she returned back sheepishly, forcing herself to look him in the eye. Trying not to remember that he’d literally undressed her just a while ago.

“I don’t know if you heard on the radio, but they’re putting me up in the sitting room tonight,” he nodded toward the open door leading into it. “White House is on lockdown, and they’re keeping me on duty until it lets up.”

Clarke bit her lip. Something in her felt more at ease, warmer knowing that he was sleeping nearby.

“Thanks for staying awake,” he continued, rubbing the blankets gently over her leg.

“Thanks for keeping me from turning into a popsicle,” she countered, offering him a weak smile.

There he was, always saving her.

“Part of the j-” he began, but he stopped, catching himself. “Any time,” he offered, sinking down on the edge of the mattress.

“I still don’t think you should sleep for a while,” he began, grabbing the extra blanket from the bench and swathing it over her. “Just in case.”

Clarke sighed. She was so tired. She was still a little cold. But mostly, she was exhausted.

His eyes searched her face. “I’ll help you stay awake,” he said, planting his feet down and walking around to the other side of the bed. Clarke was so tightly bundled up that she felt rather than saw him climb under the blankets next to her.

She remembered suddenly that he must have gotten very cold, too.

“Hey, are you okay?” She asked him, suddenly feeling very selfish. Guilty.

“I’m fine,” he said casually. She felt his arms encircle her as he tugged her back flush with his chest under the heavy blankets. “The hot shower helped a lot. You guys have fantastic water pressure for such an old house, by the way.”

A small grin stole its way onto Clarke’s lips as she felt Bellamy tuck his chin over her shoulder.

“Gotta keep you warm. Tell me a story,” his low voice murmured in her ear as he held her closer, the wet curls of his hair grazing her cheek.

She didn’t know how she was supposed to speak when she could hardly breathe.

Flustered, she cleared her throat. “Okay, uh, hmm. Once upon a time, there was-”

Bellamy shook his head against her shoulder. “Mm, not a fairy tale. One about you.” His soft breath tickled her neck.

She wanted nothing more than to turn her head and to press her lips against the soft ones she’d felt on her neck earlier.

But she couldn’t.

And she owed Bellamy a story.

The nightmares of the days to come could wait.

“Okay. So, when I was about six or seven, I _begged_ my dad to take me to the aquarium. I’d never been, you see, and I was starting to get the sneaking suspicion that electric eels were fictional creatures. I needed proof. Finally, he agreed to take me…”


	8. When Wings Fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the secret is out, a desperate plan fails, and hope is lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! This chapter was very hard to write. It's definitely the darkest one yet, and it's the most important chapter for people sensitive to certain content to heed the trigger warnings! So, with that in mind, there is a heavy self-harm/suicidal ideation tw/cw for this chapter. It's always darkest before the dawn.
> 
> Sorry this is up late, and sorry I don't have something more cheerful to upload before the holidays hit, but I hope you enjoy anyways! I hope you guys have been enjoying my subtle nods to canon dialogue ;)

* * *

Clarke woke up still wrapped in a cocoon of quilts and blankets. Just not Bellamy’s arms.

Sometime in the night, he must have moved. As Clarke squinted in the dim light of her bedroom, she noticed that the door leading to Bellamy’s makeshift bed in the adjoining room was still open.

If she held her breath, she could _just_ hear the low sounds of a news anchor issuing from the television in his room.

Remembering with some embarrassment that last night, Bellamy had swaddled her up while she was wearing only underwear, she slid carefully out of bed, keeping one of the quilts pulled tightly around her.

Bellamy was already dressed in work gear, sitting up on the couch, which he’d stripped of its bedding.

As Clarke padded into the room, he met her eyes, a bit of shyness lingering in his own.

Clarke tried to shake the faint awkwardness off.

“What are they saying?” Clarke asked him, nodding toward the television. “Wait. Do I even want to know?”

“We’re in some pretty hot water,” Bellamy replied, his voice rough from disuse this far into the morning. “But luckily they aren’t mentioning much on the source, given how explosive the contents of those memos are. Every network generally seems to be agreeing that it’s a highly complicated situation. If the strikes had actually happened, they would be labeled as crimes against humanity by the United Nations. The thing is, this came out _before_ the strikes could be carried out, and it’s hard to take action against political intent that was never fully realized.”

A bubble of hope expanded in Clarke’s chest. “So -- there probably won’t be war?”

Bellamy shook his head. “Seems unlikely. Our allies are popping into press conferences and condemning us like crazy already, though. Dropping like flies.”

Clarke let out a breath she’d been holding for too long.

_She hadn’t caused bloodshed._

She could cry with relief.

She sank down on the couch next to Bellamy, the muscles in her shoulders relaxing as she slouched.

“They’re still out there investigating like no tomorrow, though,” Bellamy nodded toward the door, giving Clarke a sidelong glance.

Clarke nodded weakly. The biggest crisis seemed to have been averted, but she personally wasn’t out of the woods yet. And she was terrified.

“From what I’ve gathered, they’ve already searched the Oval Office and security footage high and low. It was cleaned too recently to reveal any unusual fingerprints, and nothing suspicious came up on camera.” She felt his hand rub the back of her shoulder through the thick blanket. “I think you actually have pretty good chances.”

The small smile he gave her licked like a tiny flame at her insides. He was hopeful. She was afraid to feel the same. But she _desperately_ wanted to.

“Maybe,” she said wistfully. “I’m gonna go shower. You wanna order up some breakfast?”

Bellamy nodded. “I’m gonna need some coffee to get through this lockdown.”

Clarke chuckled. She hoisted herself and her blanket-cocoon off the couch, headed for the bathroom.

“Hey,” his voice said suddenly behind her as she reached the doorway. She looked back. She noticed that his hair was even more tousled than usual this morning. “You feeling better?”

Clarke’s mind flashed back to last night. Memories of freezing, of shaking uncontrollably from cold were a blur.

The memory of Bellamy’s lips on her neck was clear as day.

“I’m fine,” she answered, grinning to herself as she disappeared into her room for a fresh set of clothing.

…

When Clarke left the steamy bathroom, her damp hair dripping onto her oversized sweater, two security officers stood in her room, their faces grim as Bellamy paced the floor, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.

His face told her everything she needed to know.

“Miss Griffin,” another security officer she’d never met said sharply to her from across a wooden desk, “You are not here to be interviewed. You are here to be told that we know what you’ve done.”

The walls of the already-cramped Homeland Security office in the West Wing felt like they were shrinking in on her every second.

“Though it seems you were clever enough to erase any sign of your wrongdoings in the Oval Office, our team was able to track down your use of the VPN.”

Clarke swallowed back the rising bile in her throat.

“Surely someone your age must know that nothing on the internet is ever really gone, Miss Griffin.”

The bile rising in Clarke’s throat was suddenly replaced with anger.

“You know I did nothing wrong, _sir_,” she bit out. “The first amendment defends my rights. This country would have been in violation of the Geneva Convention if those airstrikes had been executed.”

“You revealed the contents of and apparently destroyed classified government documents,” the officer replied sternly. “I can confidently say that no matter what you’d like to believe about your actions, you have effectively ruined the rest of your life.”

Tears sprang to Clarke’s eyes unbidden. Tears of fury. Tears of dread.

“Innocent people would have _died_ for no reason other than greed,” she ground out, her voice full of tears and fire.

“Matters of state and war have no business in the hands of a spoiled teenager,” the man on the other side of the desk derided. “And you’ve made a real mess of things.” He looked away as he shuffled papers in front of him. “Your mother has asked that you not make any attempts to see her as she tries to sort out the fallout of you trying to implode her administration. She has instructed that you be informed that you are, and I quote, ‘no daughter of hers.’ She will not be speaking to you on this matter or any other matter for the time being.”

A pang of abandonment stabbed furiously through Clarke’s heart, twisting. She hadn’t realized a part of her still hoped that her mom would understand. That she would see where things had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

But she hadn’t.

“So,” she finally spoke up, pushing with herculean effort to keep her voice from shaking. “How are you going to punish me? Hang me in the rose garden? I know a lot of people would pay to see a spectacle like that.”

The man gave her an annoyed frown. “No. Due to the nature of the crime and the complexity of the situation, prosecution is not the best path at this time. Technically, you will be placed under criminal investigation and subsequent house arrest for the foreseeable future. I’m sure it will cause quite the scandal, regardless.”

Clarke couldn’t give a fuck about a scandal. Let them tear her to pieces.

It didn’t matter if you were a polarizing public figure if you were never allowed to go out in public again.

Clarke refused to let herself cry as they locked the GPS-equipped ankle bracelet around her leg.

She refused to let herself cry as an entourage of three security officers surrounded her, escorting her all the way back to the residence and up to her room.

She made sure staffers saw her with her head held high.

She’d done what had to be done. What _should_ have been done.

Left unceremoniously in her room, something caught her eye as she passed the open door to the sitting room.

The couch and coffee table had been replaced with a neat, nondescript, freshly-made double bed.

Apparently first daughters under house arrest got live-in jailers.

She wondered who it would be.

…

“Due to the terms of Miss Griffin’s house arrest, a live-in secret service agent will now be required. Someone by her side at all times is necessary to keep an even sharper eye on her from now on, but also to make sure no harm comes to her, as you have been doing. Though it’s unlikely that anyone would be able to access her while she’s under house arrest, we’ve just gotten word that her identity as the whistleblower has been leaked. Though public reaction is only just beginning to pour in, it’s fairly mixed, and let’s just say certain...factions of political alignment are quite enraged at her. Saying some pretty nasty things.”

Bellamy swallowed thickly, worried for Clarke. Praying to god that she wasn’t seeing those comments on top of everything else right now.

“Your pay would be doubled, of course, and all meals would be covered by the White House kitchens. The sitting room attached to Miss Griffin’s quarters has already been converted into a bedroom. As you currently have the most impressive resume and least amount of spousal or familial attachments, we consider you the top candidate for the position, and have offered it to you before anyone else in service.” The Homeland Security agent cleared his throat. “If you need a few minutes to decide, feel free to take them.”

“I accept,” Bellamy said immediately. “Where do I sign?”

Not for a second would Bellamy consider leaving Clarke alone.

He never wanted that to mean more or less becoming her prison guard, but he couldn’t leave her. He didn’t trust anyone else with her.

He just hoped she wouldn’t grow to resent him for this. He just hoped she wouldn’t get _worse_ because of this.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the pink gashes on her hips. The angry red welts on her hand.

He was afraid.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

There was nothing left for him at home anymore now anyways.

The agent handed Bellamy a small device. “This is the monitor for her ankle bracelet. If she leaves the residence area perimeter or tries to remove it, it will notify you. It will also send an alert to the secret service office as well.”

Bellamy wanted to crush it to pieces in his hand. Instead, he put it in his pocket.

“If you want to step into the office next door, we have some couriers on hand who will fetch anything from your current residence and move it into your room for you. Just fill out the forms and it should arrive by this afternoon.”

Bellamy nodded his thanks as the ink dried on the signature line of his updated contract.

His desire to see Clarke battled with his fear at what he would find when he finally got to her.

. . .

When Bellamy finally slipped into Clarke’s quarters, she was curled up with her laptop on the couch, her face impassive as she scrolled down through the page. Bellamy’s heart beat sickeningly at the sight of the ankle monitor attached to her leg.

She didn’t glance up at him as he walked toward her, silent.

“What are you reading?” He asked cautiously, afraid that she’d already found what he didn’t want her to.

Wordlessly, she handed the laptop up to him.

Clarke was dozens of replies deep in the comments section of a breaking news article:

“Whistleblower Madame President’s Own Daughter”. Some of the comments were beautifully positive:

_“The girl’s a hero!”_

_“I hope that wherever Clarke is, she knows that she’s saved lives.”_

_“If that were my child, I’d be proud. Shame on the president.”_

Others were horrifically the opposite.

_“Fat cow almost sent us to war!”_

_“Spoiled brat thinks she can steal the Oval Office from a real lady of class.”_

_“Guess you’ll do anything for attention when your looks won’t get you any.”_

Bellamy’s gut twisted as he realized that those weren’t even the worst of it.

_“Whistleblowers are ruining this country. She should be shot.”_

_“She fucked our country without its consent. The same should be done to her. Payback’s a bitch.”_

Stomach churning, Bellamy exited out of the article. “You shouldn’t be reading those, Clarke. It won’t help anything.”

She laughed bitterly. “It doesn’t matter, Bellamy.”

Her eyes still hadn’t met his.

“You’ve got people on your side, too, Clarke.” He put a hand to her shoulder. “Including me.”

She said nothing. Her silence scared him. He’d expected tears. He’d expected a tirade. He hadn’t expected this.

Suddenly, he felt her warm hand cover his as she leaned into his grasp.

“Is the sitting room yours now?” Her soft voice floated to his ears.

“It is.” He felt her shoulder sag under his grip.

“I’m glad,” she said, her voice monotone in a way that suggested she was forcing the emotion out of it. “I didn’t want losing my freedom to mean losing you too.”

Her eyes finally turned upward to meet his. Though she wasn’t crying, there was still something vulnerable, naked in her gaze. Bellamy’s heart constricted.

He gave her shoulder one last squeeze before he let go, settling into the armchair near her.

As Clarke reached wearily for her history textbook, Bellamy closed his eyes.

He didn’t realize how hard it was to watch someone’s spirit break.

…

Clarke’s stomach palpitated with nausea.

What she was about to do was a death wish.

It had less than a one-percent chance of working.

She knew so little about the city around her that she didn’t even know where to go. She had no way of planning this other than googling metro routes and bus stations.

But she had to try.

Ever since she’d moved into the White House, she’d felt like she’d been locked in a cage.

But this new order of house arrest -- it felt like the people holding the locks were smothering her face with a pillow now as well.

She couldn’t stay.

There was no way escaping would work.

But she had to try.

Her heart twisted, mangling itself over the words she’d said to Bellamy.

_I didn’t want losing my freedom to mean losing you too._

But on the absolutely miniscule chance that she got away, she _would_ be losing him.

Gaining room to breathe. Losing the person who took her breath away.

There was never going to be a scenario where she didn’t take a major loss. But she couldn’t stay here anymore.

Clarke shoved what cash she had kept stowed in her dresser into her dark jean pockets. She left her ID, her cell phone on the nightstand -- she didn’t need to be traced.

Knowing the night air was still frigid, she tucked her hair up into a beanie and pulled a thick hoodie on.

She suspected that Bellamy wouldn’t be the only one who could monitor her ankle bracelet. It would be lunacy for the secret service office to not monitor her as well.

She wouldn’t have long once the alarm sounded, but she could at least get a head start while her bodyguard was otherwise occupied.

Clarke knew that ankle monitors were tamper-resistant. That any meddling with them would immediately send an alert.

She needed to get it off in one fell swoop.

She knew the security cameras and personnel outside would see her, one way or another. She was going to have to run faster than she’d ever run before.

When she heard Bellamy turn the shower on behind the closed door of their now-shared bathroom, she dug under her mattress, withdrawing the large kitchen knife she’d sneaked from the kitchens the week after she’d gotten drugged at the concert. She hadn’t felt safe then.

She didn’t feel safe now, either. A few scrolls through any breaking news comment section were clear enough evidence that some political extremists out there wanted her dead.

But she had to get out of here.

She crouched down, unhitching all of the latches at the bottom of her window and tugging the panes upward. Icy air rushed in, and she tried not to think of the two-story fall that awaited her.

At least the shrubbery would help break the fall.

Clarke gripped the knife tighter in her left hand, steeling herself with a deep breath.

Gritting her teeth, she thrust the knife down, slicing through the monitor band and almost certainly slicing through skin along with it. She was sure she would feel it in a few seconds.

She didn’t have time to worry about it now.

The ankle monitor began to beep incessantly.

Before she could let herself chicken out, she hoisted herself over the windowsill and braced for impact.

The branches of the shrubbery weren’t as supportive as she’d expected, and as she snapped through them to the ground. The landing sent shocks of pain through all her joints below the waist.

Biting her lip to keep herself from crying out, she steadied herself - only for a second - and began to run, skirting the shubbery and darting around under the darkness of the trees.

There was nothing to stop her as she sprinted through the cold night air, the blood oozing from her ankle and wetting the fabric of her skinny jeans like ice water.

Blood rushed in her ears, pulsating to match her heartbeat, frantic with exertion.

She couldn’t hear anything around her. She couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

The high fencing grew nearer and nearer. If she had enough momentum, she felt confident she could vault and climb over it.

She didn’t know which direction she would run once she got to the other side. That didn’t matter just now.

All that mattered was clearing the fence.

Her heart pumping even faster now, she ran hard, pushing off the pavement despite her aching, protesting knees and ankles.

She gripped onto the cold, black metal bars, hoisting herself upward.

She was going to make it.

Suddenly, something strong latched onto her waist, ripping her down from the fence. Her weight sent her falling backward, landing hard on the ground.

No, not on the ground.

On someone.

“I’m so sorry,” Bellamy’s voice, breathless, cracked in her ear, his chest heaving beneath her.

A wail ripped from Clarke’s throat as the reality of the situation hit her.

“_No!_” she screamed, over and over as Bellamy tried to hold her still. “Let me go! Let me go-”

Her voice shattered into sobs, wracking her body and shredding through her throat mercilessly.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Bellamy repeated in whispers, and in between her own sobs, she heard the catch of tears in his voice too.

She didn’t care.

She had been so close.

Through her tears, she realized there were four other guards surrounding them, watching the two of them warily, their stances tense.

“Miss Griffin, you need to stop struggling,” one of them barked sternly at her, raising his arms. Holding something she couldn’t make out.

“Clarke. _Please,_ Clarke,” Bellamy begged. Clarke fought against his grip as he pulled them both upright and to their feet. “Clarke, it’s not safe out here. So many people are out for your blood right now. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he spoke into her hair.

“Miss Griffin, this is your final warning,” the guard spoke again. Clarke screamed out, thrashing against Bellamy’s hold on her.

She was so close. She would have made it over the fence.

She could have been free.

“No!” She heard Bellamy shout behind her.

She didn’t understand.

A split second later, she understood.

White hot pain struck just below her collarbone. A pain she’d never felt before.

Her body began to convulse, her muscles shaking and spasming, pain rattling across her very bones.

It hurt too much to scream anymore.

She was faintly aware of Bellamy catching her as her knees gave out.

The spots on her chest where the she’d been tased hurt like she’d been branded with hot iron.

“That was completely uncalled for,” Bellamy’s deep voice shook slightly as he shouted at the guard. Clarke felt him wrap his hand under her knees, hoisting her rattled, burning body up into his arms.

What energy she had left in her body left her abruptly, and she went limp in his arms, closing her eyes.

She didn’t want to be awake through whatever came next.

…

Bellamy sat shivering in his pajamas in the secret service office, his body freezing and his heart aching and his mind racing.

He should have expected her to try and run.

He half-hated himself for stopping her.

But he’d heard straight from security about the threats being made against her right now. Not everyone out there despised her, but enough did. Enough wanted her dead. Enough wanted her dead enough to be the one to kill her.

He couldn’t let anything happen to her.

But couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d taken a chance - however unrealistic getting away with it might have been - for happiness away from her tonight.

And it made his heart sick.

He couldn’t look her in the eye as she slumped in the chair next to him, sporting a fresh ankle monitor. Her skin was pale and sallow-looking, and her breathing sounded rough as air struggled in and out of her lungs.

“Miss Griffin, I am sure you realize the seriousness of what you’ve done. We’re lucky Mr. Blake here is good at his job.”

Both of them flinched at the sound of Bellamy’s name.

“We’ve discussed this infraction amongst our secret service and legal teams. You must know in no uncertain terms that, if anything like this is attempted again, you will be removed from house arrest and relocated to a jail cell. Is that clear?”

Bellamy swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. Everything about this was revolting.

Clarke nodded sullenly, her movements stiff with the soreness from the electric shocks. Two swollen, purple-red marks, accompanied by a few scrapes, showed over the scoopneck of her henley, reminding everyone of the taser shocks that she’d so unmercifully received.

The officer seemed satisfied with her nonverbal acknowledgement. He waved a hand at the two of them.

“You may go. Miss Griffin, a nurse is waiting outside to stitch the wound on your ankle.”

They both rose, both a bit unsteady, and Clarke stumbled out of the office and into the outer room.

“Come here, baby,” an older, motherly woman dressed in scrubs beckoned, patting a bench next to her. “You sit right down and prop your ankle up for me.”

Bellamy watched Clarke wince while stretching her leg upward and onto the bench for the nurse. She didn’t flinch, however, when the nurse deftly cleaned and sewed up the gash along her ankle, the needle swiftly going in and out of Clarke’s pale skin. As the nurse finished, she taped a bandage over it and patted Clarke’s shin.

“Keep it out of water, and the stitches will dissolve soon. You call me if anything seems wrong with it, okay?”

Clarke nodded, biting her lip, her eyes still downcast.

She didn’t look at him as they started the walk back to the residence. As he watched her limp feebly along, he desperately wanted to wrap his arms around her and carry her back.

He knew she wouldn’t let him.

He didn’t know if she would ever speak to him again.

When they got back to the suite, she disappeared into the bathroom with a fresh pair of pajamas.

He had to say something to her.

It was a complicated situation, but he still felt like he needed forgiveness. From her. He still felt he’d done wrong by _her_.

When she finally reemerged in thick flannel pajamas, her hair tied back in a loose braid, he swallowed hard at the sight of the bruising the taser had left peeking above her shirt collar.

“Clarke,” he heard himself say, self-conscious of the tremble in his voice. “I’m so sorry. I-” he stopped, trying to steady himself. The look in her eyes was lifeless -- dull with despair. He struggled to hold her gaze. He didn’t want to see that looking back at him. Because of him.

“Clarke, there are people out there - security threats - people who would try to kill you on sight, Clarke, and I couldn’t let that-”

“You were just doing your job,” she cut him off, her voice weak. Exhausted. “It’s okay, Bellamy.” She stepped slowly toward him, her fingers reaching limply to graze his arm. “Really. I understand.” Her head bowed as she walked past him toward her bed.

It seemed she had nothing else to say.

Feverish from his body reheating, his heart plagued, Bellamy shut the door between their bedrooms and climbed into his own.

…

A noise startled Bellamy from his sleep. He’d been so deep in sleep, he couldn’t say what the noise had even sounded like. Only that it had woken him.

He rubbed his eyes blearily and snuggled deeper into the pillow, knowing it had likely been one of the many birds that liked to frequent the north façade of the house.

As his lids drifted shut, he heard the sound again. This time he recognized it.

It was someone crying.

It was Clarke crying.

Bellamy suddenly felt much more awake.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he padded across the carpet and gently pushed open the door between their adjoining rooms.

Another watery sniffle, followed by a hiccup, filled the otherwise silent room.

“Clarke?” Bellamy whispered into the darkness. His eyes began to adjust to the room, silhouettes beginning to appear in the faint moonlight.

The only answer he got was a rasping sob from the direction of the bed. It tugged at him like a magnet. Like the other half of a binary star.

He wished he could take her suffering away.

“Clarke,” he said again, keeping his voice low. He stopped at the side of the bed, able to make out the shine of her golden head on the pillow. The wet tracks of tears on her cheeks. The glisten of unshed ones in her swollen eyes.

Tentatively, he reached a hand out and rested it on her side, over the quilts covering her.

She met his eyes just as another tear slipped and ran down her cheek.

“I’m so scared, Bellamy,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears and a thickness that signified she’d been crying for more than just a few minutes. His heart tugged forward, trying to push out of his chest. At least, it felt that way.

“I know,” he answered, moving his hand to gently swipe a fresh tear from her wet cheek with his thumb. “I know.”

“Please don’t leave me,” she said suddenly, her voice on the verge of inaudible. Her hand snaked out from under the quilt to grab his wrist, her fingers closing softly around it. “I’m so scared,” she repeated, more tears falling faster now.

He could never leave her.

He wished she knew.

Before he could think better of it, he climbed into bed beside her, tucking the blankets around both of them and pulling her into his chest.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothed, stroking her hair. He felt her shoulders shaking against him. She tucked her face into his neck, and hot tears wet the skin above his collarbone.

He grit his teeth, trying to steady himself. Clarke didn’t need both of them crying right now.

But her pain didn’t slice through him like a knife. It dug itself in, twisting and turning, deeper and deeper.

“You’ll make it through,” he whispered, his hand wrapping around the nape of her warm neck.

“We’ll make it through.”

…

Breakfast had been delivered to both of them. Apparently, all of Clarke’s meals would now be delivered to her room. Bellamy had the choice of tapping in a substitute to take over for him on meal breaks, but he didn’t want to do that just now.

Clarke sat languidly on the couch, still in her pajamas, her muffin untouched, her tea cold. Her history textbook, opened to a chapter on the Peloponnesian War, sat uselessly in her lap as her eyes focused on nothing in particular.

She barely moved, and when she did, her sore muscles shifted stiffly, resisting. She’d said less than 10 words in the last two hours.

Last night, she had told him that she was afraid.

Now, Bellamy was afraid too.

He couldn’t focus on his book for glancing at her every ten seconds, searching for signs of life.

Setting his book aside, he moved one of the throw pillows and sat by her on the couch.

“I don’t think you can absorb information by osmosis,” he said to her, nodding toward the book in her lap. He attempted to keep his tone light, but it just sounded hollow in his ears.

Slowly, Clarke’s head tilted down, her eyes listlessly roving across the open pages. After a few seconds, her gaze shifted to him, helpless and tinged with melancholy.

His shoulders slumping a bit, Bellamy gently reached over to lift the textbook from her lap, instead propping it up against the arm of the couch. He glanced over the walls of text broken up by images of warships and men sporting crude round shields.

“What a great topic we’ve got today,” he began, trying to force a smile to his lips. “Some ancient Greek warfare, my favorite.”

Clarke’s eyes stayed on him, blue-gray and hollow.

Bellamy cleared his throat and began to read.

“The Peloponnesian War reshaped the ancient Greek world. On the level of international relations, Athens, the strongest city-state in Greece prior to the war's beginning, was reduced to a state of near-complete subjection, while Sparta became established as the leading power of Greece.”

As he paused for breath, he heard a small sigh from Clarke’s direction. Suddenly, he felt her warm hand come to rest tentatively on his knee, and shortly after, she leaned down, landing in his lap and tucking her cheek against his thigh.

For a moment, Bellamy forgot to breathe. He felt as if something totally vulnerable was trusting him to shield it from the world, just for a moment.

He’d be damned if he didn’t try.

Almost automatically, his hand went to her hair, stroking the haphazard mess of it shining on her head.

“The economic costs of the war were felt all across Greece; poverty became widespread in the Peloponnese, while Athens found itself completely devastated, and never regained its pre-war prosperity…”

…

As Clarke readied herself for bed, she realized that she could recall almost none of her day. She didn’t remember if or when she ate anything, she didn’t remember what she read or what she heard -- nothing.

She remembered the sound of Bellamy’s low, rumbling voice as he read to her.

She remembered almost falling asleep under the gentle brush of his hand on her hair.

No other part of her day had really been worth living through, much less remembering.

At least Bellamy’s warm presence could dull the nightmares away -- both waking and in sleep.

Now that they shared the bathroom, some of Bellamy’s things had begun to appear -- men’s deodorant, shaving cream, some pine-scented soap. Clarke felt ridiculous that the sight of his shampoo somehow made her feel slightly less alone in the world.

She traded off the bathroom, heading toward her bed as he grabbed a fresh towel and shut the door behind him.

Even after the warm shower, her body still ached, her muscles still stiff from the shock of the taser.

She wondered if the marks it left would scar.

It didn’t matter. What was one more scar on her body now?

Alone again in her bed, it suddenly felt too big. Her fingers craved a chest to rest against, a heartbeat to feel beneath them.

The beat of one heart in particular.

If she couldn’t be free, she didn’t want to be alone, too.

When the bathroom door opened, steam swirling in the doorway behind Bellamy, she couldn’t help but gaze at the sight of him in a thin white t-shirt and soft flannel pajama pants. She saw him in his uniform day in and day out -- a uniform that hardened him, formalized him.

There was something beautiful about the way his damp hair curled across his forehead and the way the soft, thin t-shirt clung to his broad shoulders.

He hovered in the doorway that connected their rooms, gazing back at her.

“Bellamy,” she said suddenly, feeling heat rise in her cheeks in anticipation of what she was about to ask. “Could you please stay?”

His eyes lingered on hers, soft. Warm. She wanted to drown herself in them.

“Every night, if you wanted me to,” he replied finally, his voice both gentle and gravelly at once.

She did.

“I do,” she replied, her voice catching in her throat.

She felt so helpless, so vulnerable now.

But she had almost nothing left around her to hold on to.

She felt like her purpose had been completed, like she was set to expire at any moment.

But she still had him.

She still had love.

And she’d never believed that love was weakness.

She silently threw back the blankets on the other side of the bed, patting the mattress next to her.

“Thank you,” she said, a little embarrassed, but relieved at his response.

Bellamy climbed into bed and tugged the covers back up over the two of them, burrowing down into a pillow, his eyes still on her.

Clarke winced as she shifted her sore muscles, moving toward him so that their noses were only a handful of inches apart.

She’d never stop being in awe of the beautiful freckles sprawling over his nose and cheeks, despite the already-tan shade of his skin.

She wanted to kiss every single one of them.

Out of nowhere, one of his hands emerged from the blanket to trace gingerly over the bruises on her chest. Her heart rocketed into her throat.

“Does that still hurt?” he asked distractedly, studying the scrapes and bruises under her collarbone.

Clarke nodded wordlessly, her breath caught.

Bellamy frowned. “I’m sorry. They shouldn’t have done that at all. I reported it to the head of security, but I don’t think they actually care.”

Clarke shrugged slightly. “I didn’t expect them to.” She forced her eyes away from his so she could breathe again. “Everyone here has always treated me like a liability. And I guess I’ve proven them all right. Over and over, it seems.”

“You’re a person, not a liability, Clarke,” he murmured.

“Thanks for saying so,” Clarke said casually, trying not to let the words stick in her throat. Lately, she seemed to have only two settings: sobbing or numb. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

“We should sleep,” she said quietly, nuzzling herself into his chest. One of the last places she felt safe.

One of the last places she felt like she mattered.

Bellamy reached behind him to turn off the lamp.

“Good night,” she heard him whisper as she felt his hand curve around her waist.

Laying there that way, she wished the morning wouldn’t come.

…

Clarke stared at herself in the bathroom mirror.

It had been two weeks since she’d tried to escape.

Two weeks of life inside one room.

Two weeks of going through the motions.

She couldn’t stand the sight of her own face anymore.

Bellamy had been doing his best to cheer her up. She could tell by the way he ordered her favorite meals from the kitchen, by the way he let her pick the movie every time, by the way he held her to his chest in bed every night, gently playing with her hair.

She loved him for trying.

But something inside her felt like it was going to burst if she didn’t do something. Burst, or wither away into nothing. She needed to have control over _something_ happening in her life.

She opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet space beneath her sink, grabbing a pair of hair shears she once had used to try and trim her own split ends.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged down on a lock of freshly washed, bra-length blonde hair and starting cutting just below the chin.

. . .

“Hey, I was thinking lasagna for dinner, what about-” Bellamy’s voice died in his throat as Clarke emerged from the bathroom.

She’d cut at least 6 inches off her hair - maybe more - between the time she’d gone in to shower and the time she’d come out, and it reached just past her chin in chunky, blunt strands.

Something uneasily scratched at Bellamy’s memory. A flashbulb moment of a classmate in middle school, showing up to school a week after her parents had both died in a car crash with her previously-waist-length hair shorn into a pixie cut.

“Uh,” Bellamy stuttered, unsure of what to say.

Clarke saved him the embarrassment. “It looks awful, doesn’t it,” she said flatly, fingering the rough ends of the hair near her face.

“You could never look awful,” he said truthfully. Even when he’d first met her, he’d seen then how beautiful she was. He’d never understood why her looks had gotten raked over the coals constantly in the tabloids.

She scowled at him. “Tell the truth,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

He had been.

“You look fine, Clarke.” He paused, sighing. “It is a bit uneven in the back, though,” he said tentatively, watching her face closely.

She frowned. “Will you fix it for me?”

Bellamy drew back. He’d literally never cut hair himself before other than when he cropped his hair during his deployment.

“Please?” She continued. “I trust you to do it.”

“You shouldn’t,” Bellamy admonished, but headed toward the bathroom sink with her just the same.

Bellamy clipped carefully, small strands at a time, as he tried to level out the back of her freshly-cut bob.

Clarke’s eyes were downcast, not watching the mirror as she fiddled with the ends of the towel that was draped around her. Bellamy noticed how much more hollow her cheeks looked, no longer round and rosy as they were before.

“Clarke,” he started out gently, not wanting to upset her. “I know you haven’t been hungry lately, but you should try to eat a little more at meal times, okay? It’s good for you,” he said quietly, snipping another jagged end.

“What does it matter,” Clarke answered dryly, looking up at him through the mirror. “I’m finally just giving the people what they want, right? Too little, too late. The paparazzi and press can’t see me now.” She twisted the end of the towel in her fingers. “No one can.”

“I can,” Bellamy replied, gazing straight back at her. “And I see a girl who needs to stop ignoring everything that’s brought up for room service.”

Clarke snorted. “Room service? I don’t think that’s what they call it when they feed prisoners.”

“You’re not in prison, Clarke.”

“Not _yet_.”

“You won’t end up in a cell, Clarke. I won’t let it happen.”

Clarke’s eyes wandered away from his, unfocused.

“No,” she replied distractedly, her voice slow. “No, I won’t end up in prison.”

Bellamy frowned. What was she trying to say? His stomach shifted uneasily.

“I think it’s finally all one length,” he announced, shaking his head at the short bits of hair clinging all over the towel.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice still aloof and distracted. “I’m sure you did fine.”

Worry knotted his insides as he watched her shake her hair out, fold up the towel, and walk out, climbing back into her bed.

…

Bellamy drifted suddenly back into consciousness in the middle of the night, unsure of what had woken him. As he reached out for Clarke next to him, his hand fell through air, meeting only with cold sheets.

He glanced around frantically, annoyed at his blindness in the dark. He knew she hadn’t left the room, or else he would’ve been alerted by that goddamned monitoring system.

A quiet, sharp intake of breath caught his ear from the other side of the bed.

“Clarke?” he called out, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

No answer. Bellamy thought he heard a shaky breath, but he couldn’t be sure. Fumbling in the darkness, he reached for the beaded metal cord to switch the lamp on.

His vision blew out in the sudden light, and he blinked rapidly, trying to look toward the sound he’d heard.

Clarke was crouched near the window, her knees drawn loosely toward her chest, her shoulders shaking. Her face was glazed with tears -- sticky old ones and wet, fresh ones. She wouldn’t look at him as she rested her forearms on her kneecaps, and deep, dark rivulets of blood pooled and dripped from multiple puncture wounds on each arm. The hair scissors from the afternoon before dangled from her fingers, the sharp points of them stained deep, rusty red.

Bellamy’s stomach turned violently, and he choked back bile in his throat.

“Oh my god,” he rasped, dashing across the room and falling to his knees next to her.

“Clarke, no,” he managed to get out, his voice shaking. He seized the shears from her fingertips and hurled them across the room, hearing them thump against another wall.

“What have you done, what have you done,” he whispered to himself over and over, fixating on the words, clinging to them in his panic. He yanked his white cotton t-shirt over his head, ripping it in half and pressing it against her bleeding, torn-up arms.

“I’m-” she broke off, a sob sucking through her lungs. “I’m so sick of everyone else destroying my life,” she whimpered, her voice cracking through tears. “Nothing I do m-m-matters. So I’m taking control and d-destroying it myself.” She cried harder, tears drenching her eyelashes and glueing them together.

“No, no, no,” Bellamy murmured, his heart slamming in his chest. How much blood had she lost? It didn’t look like a massive amount, but there was still a lot of blood. And she’d done it to herself. The thought of her digging the metal into her soft skin, feeling the biting pain of it -- it made him break out into a sickly cold sweat.

He couldn’t lose Clarke. He _couldn’t_. Not like this. Not in any way.

“Clarke,” he said urgently, ducking to her level, trying to catch her eye. “Clarke, you can’t do this. Please don’t do this anymore, _please._” He begged. He heard the desperation in his own voice and he didn’t care.

“It’s better than not f-feeling anything,” she choked out, pieces of short hair clinging to her wet face.

“You can’t hurt yourself anymore, Clarke.” Bellamy tried to smooth the tremor from his voice and failed. He was terrified. He was heartsick. He felt _physically_ sick as he pressed the remains of his shirt to her arms, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“I don’t care,” she cried, weeping harder, her eyes roving around desperately. “I don’t _care,_” she repeated, knocking her head back against the wall.

“_I care,_” he replied fervently, lifting a hand to push back tear-soaked hair from her cheeks.

Another sob ripped from Clarke’s chest before she went silent, finally meeting his eyes.

Bellamy felt tears spring to his own as he met her gaze. It hurt to look at. Her eyes, no longer empty, swam with despair -- with hopelessness, with sorrow that couldn’t be smothered.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” she whispered, her voice low and rocky as she held his gaze. “I don’t want to be anywhere anymore.”

A sob welled up from Bellamy’s lungs after those words left her lips. He didn’t know how to fix this. He couldn’t save her from this. And it made him want to tear the world apart.

“I’m not losing you, Clarke,” he whispered, throwing his arms around her, holding her to him. She fell limply into his embrace, her wet cheek on his shoulder, her bloodied arms smearing against his torso.

He took a deep, trembling breath. “I know things are bad right now, but they’ll get better. They have to get better,” he said, his voice husky and thick with tears. He couldn’t let panic paralyze him now when she needed someone here with her so much. He wasn’t even sure he believed the words he said, but right now he needed her to hear them. He needed for there to be a chance they could be true.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised, pressing a kiss to her hair. He felt her began to sob again against his shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter,” she gasped, her whole body shaking against him. “I don’t want to _be here._”

Fresh tears spilled over onto Bellamy’s face, falling faster and harder than before. “Please don’t say that Clarke. I’m so sorry. Tell me what I can do. Tell me what I can do to make it better,” he begged, crying freely now.

Clarke pushed away from him, her eyes glistening as they searched for his. “Don’t cry,” she whispered, lifting a shaking hand and thumbing a tear away from his cheek. Her skin felt cold on his flushed face.

“I’m supposed to keep you alive,” Bellamy finally said, his heart breaking into pieces.

“And you have,” Clarke hiccuped, a ghost of a smile turning at her chapped lips. Her other hand caressed the other side of his face, grazing his cheek gently with her fingertips. “But you can’t fix everything, Bellamy.”

“Let me try,” he pleaded, alarmed at her change in demeanor. The sudden calm scared him almost more than the sobbing.

A single tear trickled down to Clarke’s chin as she leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his cheek. The touch of her lips to his skin made the ruins of his heart jump like a static shock.

“I’m so tired, Bellamy,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Can we just sleep now?”

Bellamy hastily wiped another tear from the corner of his eye, sniffing hard. He couldn’t let this go that easily.

“Promise me,” he said, his voice still wobbling. “Promise me you won’t do this again.” He reached down and encircled her wrists in his hands, gently tugging them outward.

Clarke gazed back at him for several long moments, her eyes still glistening, sad and bloodshot.

“I promise,” she said finally, her voice thin but unmistakable.

Bellamy’s shoulders slumped. It was only staving off a bigger problem, but he was terrified of Clarke ever hurting, and seeing her do it to herself broke him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing unbroken skin inside her wrist.

“You can’t sleep like this,” he said uncomfortably, glancing down at the stained, punctured skin on her pale arms.

He struggled to his knees, tugging her up with him. Her legs moved unsteadily beneath her as he led her to the sink, grabbing the first aid kit from the linen closet.

She sat on the edge of the sink like she was made of stone, not flinching when he poured peroxide over the wounds on her arms, not moving when he taped them up with bandages. Her eyes fell somewhere around his chest, and he suddenly became self-conscious of the fact that he was no longer wearing a shirt.

“I’m sorry I ruined your shirt,” she said faintly, as if she read his thoughts.

“I ruined it, not you,” he replied, finishing up the last bandage near the inside of her elbow.

“Go lay down, okay? I’ll be right there.”

Her gaze lingering on his for a moment, she finally acquiesced, heading toward the giant four-poster they now shared every night.

As Clarke sank down into the middle of the bed, Bellamy began rifling through drawers, grabbing scissors, razors, nail clippers, sharp tweezers -- anything in the suite sharp enough to draw blood. He tossed them into an empty overnight bag he’d found, and zipped it up after locating and tossing in the bloodied shears Clarke had been clinging to earlier.

He felt her eyes follow him from the bed as he confiscated everything. He turned to meet her gaze.

“I promised,” she said almost inaudibly, brows drawing together.

“I know you did. But some promises end up being harder to keep than you thought,” he said sympathetically, tossing the bag into his room and shutting the door.

Unwilling to leave the room and go look for another shirt, Bellamy climbed into bed in only his pajama pants, tugging an extra blanket over himself before switching off the light.

He didn’t want to crush Clarke’s freshly-bandaged arms against him while they slept. He knew how much they probably stung.

“Roll over,” he directed softly, tapping her shoulder.

Silently, she obeyed, her body now facing away from him.

Carefully, he shifted over, pressing his body up against her and wrapping his arms around her stomach. Sighing, he pressed his chin over the top of her shoulder, nuzzling into her shorter, but still soft and sweet-smelling hair.

“Stay,” he whispered hopelessly against her neck, wishing he never had to let go of her. Wishing he could hold her like this while the world burned down around them.

He felt her small, cool hand rest on top of the one he had splayed across her stomach. She locked her fingers between his, squeezing them gently.

Bellamy was afraid of tomorrow, but now, in the moments between waking and sleep, they were safe. And they still had each other.

…

The pain of the night before had morphed into discomfort and awkwardness the next morning. It took Clarke hours to even look Bellamy in the eye.

And no matter how hard he’d fought for her last night…

It hadn’t been enough.

It wasn’t his fault. Nothing would be enough.

She couldn’t live like this anymore.

She wouldn’t.

The two of them rotated around each other throughout the day. Bellamy, though his body seemed at ease enough, had a hurt, anxious look in his eyes. She didn’t like seeing it.

She didn’t want the sickness in her soul infecting them both.

She ached for the sting of sharp metal on her skin to distract her from the suffocating feeling in her chest - even though her arms still burned from last night - but she’d promised him she wouldn’t.

So she didn’t.

Bellamy had tried to get her to study some science this morning. To add some routine back into their lives. He’d even made bad puns out of the textbook vocabulary to cheer her up. It had made her want to cry instead.

Instead, she dropped the textbook on the coffee table, giving up, and went to sprawl on the bed, laying down on her back. She was still in pajamas. There was no point in changing.

Her eyes roamed over her walls, taking in the murals she’d illicitly painted over the wallpaper what felt like years ago now.

She hadn’t felt like making art in months.

“Hey Clarke?” Bellamy’s voice suddenly broke the silence, pensive.

When he didn’t continue, she sat upright, scooting herself to the edge of the bed. Her hastily shorn hair swished against her cheeks, falling forward to partially obscure her face.

“Hm?” she murmured in response.

Bellamy got up off the couch, walking toward her.

“I just wanted to tell you that-” he sniffed, his lips twitching from side to side. His eyes danced nervously between her gaze and his hands. “I just wanted you to know that I’m really proud of what you did. That I always have been. I thought you should know, if you didn’t already.”

Clarke’s heart lurched in a way she couldn’t ignore. She felt her throat close up, tears threatening to well in her eyes, but she swallowed thickly, forcing them back down.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone she loved had said they were proud of her.

“Thank you,” she said huskily, still pushing back the urge to cry. She’d cried enough lately.

“I know it’s been hard,” he continued, stepping closer. He reached an arm out to clasp her shoulder gently. “But you did the right thing. You saved so many people, Clarke. Don’t forget that.”

Clarke bit her lip.

Why not let herself have one thing that she really, desperately wanted, here at the end of the road?

Why not try one last time to reach out for joy, now that she stood on a precipice?

She was going to fall no matter what. Might as well grasp for happiness now, even if it was as ephemeral as a puff of breath in cold winter air.

She hoped he didn’t notice the way her hands trembled when she reached out for him, grabbing the sides of his shirt and slowly pulling him closer to her. Close enough that his hips rested between her knees. Close enough that his eyes were level with hers.

She felt his breathing hitch alongside her own as she placed her hands on either side of his face. Her eyes swam in his, so warm and dark and _safe_.

So full of love that it almost scared her to see.

She didn’t want to hurt him.

But she couldn’t stop this now.

Gently, she rested her forehead against his, her eyes falling shut. She felt his big, warm hands skim up her shoulders and come to rest on the sides of her neck, his thumb rubbing softly against the column of her throat.

The tip of her nose brushed his. Neither of them breathed.

She wanted this _so badly._ She wanted this for herself.

And she wanted him to know how loved he was.

Slowly, she tilted her lips closer to his. Her heartbeat slammed in her ribcage, in her fingertips, under his hands on her neck.

When her lips finally pressed into his full, warm mouth, he froze for a moment.

Horrified, she pulled back an inch or two, wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake.

Then, it was as if a switch had been flipped on.

His lips met hers where she hovered, slow and urgent at the same time. Hungry, but gentle. His mouth lingered on hers, breathing her air, sucking on her bottom lip. When she broke away, breathless, his lips chased hers, unwilling to lose a moment.

She felt his warm tongue graze her bottom lip, and she sighed into his mouth, her hands moving back to tangle into his silky, wild curls. His hands crept up to her face, holding it steady as he kissed her over and over. On the mouth, under her chin, down her neck beneath her ear.

Clarke was breathless in the best way.

She’d known for a while that she was in love with him. But right now -- right now, she _felt_ that love for him inside and out, with every inch of her body and soul.

And she hated herself even more, knowing that she had to leave him behind.

She’d always known that he would never really be hers to lose, but in this moment, it felt more than anything like he was.

These thoughts constricted around Clarke’s heart like a vise, and she broke away from him, a sob escaping her throat.

Bellamy pulled away, heat rising in his cheeks. He ducked his head.

“Clarke, I’m so sorry-”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice thick. God, she was so _angry_ with herself right now. “No, you did nothing wrong, I promise.” She pressed another kiss to his lips, hers already feeling slightly swollen against his. “I’m just a mess lately. _I’m_ the one who’s sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said in a low voice, grasping the back of her neck beneath her hair and pulling her forehead down to rest against his. “Don’t be.”

Sighing shakily, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips, pressing herself against him. Willing herself to melt into him and disappear.

She felt his arms wrap around her back, pulling her even closer. She buried her face into his neck, inhaling the pine scent that his soap had left behind.

Her entire heart belonged to Bellamy Blake.

And she despised herself for what she was about to do because of it.

…

Clarke pulled on her favorite pair of pajamas after her shower -- thin gray sweatpants and a faded lavender sweatshirt with Winnie the Pooh and company on it. She’d had it since her parents had taken her to Disney World when she was 12. It was honestly a miracle it still fit, she thought wryly.

She’d thought about leaving a note, but she realized she really had nothing left to say to anyone. She didn’t want to burden her friends. She thought that her mother would likely consider this a significant _un_burdening. She’d no longer be saddled with a whistleblower child who ruined her administration.

Her kiss had told Bellamy everything she’d wanted him to know earlier.

She thought she’d be more afraid leading up to this moment, but she didn’t feel much fear.

At least, not nearly enough to overwhelm the despair that had swallowed her insides whole.

She didn’t know if dying in a cage counted as escaping it, but at this point, she didn’t care anymore.

Clarke reached down for the bottle of prescription pain pills that had been leftover from her wisdom tooth surgery. She was grateful that she’d toughed it out all those months ago.

It meant that she had an almost-full bottle now.

The higher the dose, the smaller the margin of error.

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she twisted off the cap and emptied the bottle onto the bathroom counter.

She was almost free.

Where she was going, no one could catch her. No one could keep her in a room or lock her in a cell.

She filled up a glass of tap water. Her hands trembling, she picked up the first two pills.

Clarke tossed them onto her tongue and took a deep swig of water, swallowing them down.

She just prayed nothing would go wrong.

She prayed it wouldn’t hurt.

She prayed that Bellamy would forgive her.

Avoiding her reflection in the mirror, she took another two.

And then another two.

She didn’t stop until the counter was clear of the little round white pills.

She was almost free.

“Took you long enough, princess,” Bellamy teased her, grabbing a towel from the linen closet and making his own way toward the brightly-lit bathroom.

Clarke knew she shouldn’t have looked back.

But she wanted to.

His freckles stood out faintly against his cheeks as he gave her a small grin.

He was so beautiful.

Clarke’s chest ached as she quickly closed the distance between them, grabbing his face and planting a kiss firmly on his warm, upturned mouth. He dropped his towel, reaching up to wrap his hands around her wrists and pull her closer.

Out of breath, she broke away. She stood up on her toes to press light kisses over the freckles on his cheeks and nose. Like she’d always wanted to.

She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but she was afraid that would just make everything afterward worse for him.

“See you on the other side,” she told him instead, lightly pushing him toward the shower.

He shook his head at her, smiling again before he grabbed his towel, disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.

Tears fell from Clarke’s eyes again as she closed them against the creeping wooziness. Wobbling, she sank to the floor, laying back against the soft carpet and gazing at her murals on the walls around her.

Waiting.

…

Bellamy brushed his teeth impatiently. After the nightmare of last night, he hadn’t expected today.

He hadn’t expected Clarke to kiss him like it was the last night of the world.

His fear for her well-being and joy at the taste of her mouth addled his brain as they tangled together.

He could feel the hope in him desperately trying to win out.

He wanted her to feel better.

He wanted her to feel like she could still find light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

And a selfish part of him wanted her to never stop touching him, kissing him.

Her lips on his lips sparked wildfire in his chest, and he couldn’t quell the flames.

Noticing his tube of toothpaste was empty, he reached down into the middle drawer beneath the sink for another one and leaned over to toss the tube into the wastebasket.

A flash of orange plastic caught his eye, igniting a flare of panic somewhere deep in his nerves. It was an empty prescription bottle, dated almost a year ago. Labeled “PERCOCET -- for Clarke Griffin; take one pill orally as needed.”

_See you on the other side_.

Dropping the bottle, Bellamy threw the door open, hurtling back into Clarke’s bedroom.

He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs to breathe.

Clarke was sprawled out on the floor, motionless. Her lips were a mottled shade of blue.

Bellamy’s knees buckled under him. His vision blurring, he grabbed clumsily at her wrist.

His hands were shaking too hard for him to tell if he could feel a pulse or not.

“God, no,” he choked out, hyperventilating.

It took him two tries to unstick his voice from his throat and cry out for help.

“HELP, NOW!” he roared, praying to god that there was another serviceman stationed nearby.

Sucking down air, he wiped tears from his eyes, locked his fingers, and began doing CPR.

_One, two, three, four, five…_

Bellamy kept compressing as someone burst through the door.

He didn’t even turn to look at them as he screamed, “CALL 911! _Now_!” He tilted her chin back as he blew two breaths of air through her blue lips.

“Tell them to bring the antidote for overdoses!” He shouted out, unable to make out what the guard behind him was saying on the phone over the blood rushing in his ears.

_Please don’t go_, his mind screamed over and over, panic echoing like a deafening siren around his head.

“Come on, Clarke,” he said urgently, his strangled voice falling on unresponsive ears. “I can’t lose you too. I _can’t_,” he repeated, a sob cracking his voice. He kept compressing her chest, his eyes not leaving her eerily still face.

Bellamy felt a rib crack under his pumping hands.

He hoped with every fiber of his being that she would be awake later to be angry at him for it.

“I’m not letting you go,” he cried. “Don’t make me let you go.” He noticed his own tears drop onto her sweatshirt, darkening the soft, faded fabric.

Paramedics burst into the room, carrying a gurney. One more appeared behind them, clutching a bottle and syringe.

“How long has it been?” One of them shouted at Bellamy, directing the others to lay the gurney on the ground.

“Less than half an hour,” Bellamy answered hoarsely as another EMT pushed him out of the way.

He watched as the one holding the syringe filled it and shot it quickly into her shoulder.

“We’ve got to go, _now,_” one of them said to no one specifically, and on a count, Clarke was hoisted onto the gurney.

Bellamy pressed a fist to his mouth to keep himself from sobbing out loud.

He raced after them down the hall and out to the ambulance. His vision still blurred with tears, he stumbled into the back of the cab, crouching in with the other paramedics.

No one questioned his presence as they attached Clarke to a stomach-pumping apparatus.

As the ambulance began to move, a familiar sound managed to reach Bellamy’s ears.

The sound of Clarke’s ankle monitor alarm going off.

Shaking, he reached into his pocket and wrapped his fist around the tracker as tightly as possible, crushing it into silence.


	9. A Different Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life goes on, a confession is made, and the tides begin to turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I just posted a few days ago, but I wanted to give you guys a chapter today as a christmas/holiday gift to any of my readers who might celebrate. Thanks so much for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks -- they're what keeps me going. 
> 
> Only one chapter to go after this one! Enjoy!

* * *

It was so dark.

Clarke didn’t know what she’d expected, but she’d hoped that if the afterlife was this blindingly dark, that there wouldn’t be any consciousness to go with it. Especially not the dull, deep burning sensation she felt around her ribcage.

Maybe hell was real, and she was in it.

An electronic-sounding beep struck her ears, and Clarke’s heart plummeted like a stone into a river.

No.

_No._

Her throat tightened as she wrenched her eyelids open. Her pupils ached as they shrank, unaccustomed to the ugly, white-green fluorescent lighting.

The heart monitor beside her hospital beeped steadily again.

Clarke felt hot tears climb over her eyelids and run down her face.

Through her tears, she caught sight of a blurred form sprawled over a too-small plastic loveseat. Though her eyes couldn’t make out details, she would have recognized the dark curls on his head anywhere.

He’d saved her. Again.

Clarke began to weep bitterly, sobs racking her chest.

Abject misery flooded her. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t bear to be awake again.

Not again.

Bellamy stirred across the room, her rattling sobs waking him from his sleep. When his eyes opened and he realized what was happening, he crossed the room in two long strides.

“Hey, shh, shh,” he murmured, and Clarke felt him gather her cold hands in his warm ones.

“I know you must be upset, Clarke, but you’re going to be okay. And it’s okay-” he broke off, his voice straining. “It’s okay to be sad right now, all right? But you’ll be okay. I swear to god, we’ll think of something…”

His voice trailed off as he climbed into her narrow hospital bed with her and cradled her head to his chest, running his fingers through her hair gently and murmuring unintelligibly in her ear.

Clarke sobbed almost involuntarily now, and it shook her lungs, her body, her mind. Her ribcage seared with pain at every movement. Bellamy clutched her even closer to his chest, the soft yarn of his sweater muffling her gasping tears.

Clarke didn’t want to be here, but at least, in this moment, she had something to hold on to.

…

When Bellamy had woken up to her crying, his heart had pulled in every direction, conflicted.

Elation that he could see the eyes - even weeping - of someone he thought he might never see awake again.

Fear that something the doctors had missed was hurting her.

Guilt that he hadn’t done the right thing by her before all of this happened.

And his heart broke knowing that the real reason for her tears was probably that she’d woken up at all.

He wished more than anything that he could take her pain on himself, take it away from her.

He’d give anything -- he would bear it so that she wouldn’t have to.

But all he could do for now was hold her once more while she cried.

“I’m so sorry, Clarke,” he murmured into her hair as her sobs weakened, but didn’t cease.

“You have no idea how sorry I am. I should have made you talk to someone weeks ago, or I -- I should have held the guards off and just let you run away that night. There are so many things I could have done differently, and I don’t expect you to forgive me.” Bellamy paused, trying not to let the thickness growing in his voice consume it. He sniffed. “But I want you to know that I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he heard her small, shaking voice reply from below his chin. “There’s n-nothing to forgive.”

Bellamy didn’t believe that right now, but he was grateful all the same for her saying it.

He felt a tear streak down the side of his face. He was glad she couldn’t see.

“You just need to take it easy right now, okay?” He whispered, making effort to keep his voice steady. “Your body needs to heal. You should rest.”

Bellamy pushed upward, aiming to head back to the terrible plastic sofa he’d been parking himself on, but he felt her hand nudge faintly at his chest.

“Please stay here,” he heard her whisper faintly.

“The nurses won’t like-”

“Please,” she repeated faintly, her voice rough from crying.

Bellamy leaned back down, keeping her in his arms. He didn’t want to let go of her right now either.

He felt her face tuck against the curve of his neck. Her hands tugged at his sweater, holding him close, as if she was afraid he would fall away.

Hands he’d thought might never touch him again.

He sighed, bone-tired, and closed his eyes as he leaned into the flimsy hospital pillow.

He’d hold her for as long as he could.

…

When Clarke woke up again, the sky on the other side of the window in her room was inky black, and her hospital bed was reflected in the glass.

Bellamy was gone.

She wondered where he went as she rolled over onto her side, wincing at the soreness in her torso, throat, and stomach.

Grateful that numbness had currently taken the place of her earlier weeping despair, she stared aimlessly at the pale tiled floor, wondering vaguely where she would go after this.

She wasn’t sure she even knew how to care anymore.

A middle-aged nurse dressed in pale green scrubs pushed open Clarke’s hospital room door with her hip and sidled into the room with a clipboard.

“Finally awake again,” she said kindly, writing something down on Clarke’s chart. “You think you might be okay with eating some chicken soup and some crackers in a little while?”

Clarke shrugged listlessly. “Not hungry,” she replied truthfully. Her stomach was sore, and she had no will to try and fill it.

“Well, that doesn’t matter too much. You need to eat.”

The nurse’s words reminded her of Bellamy’s, just days ago, asking her to eat for him.

Clarke cleared her throat painfully. “Um, excuse me, sorry, do you know where the man who was with me earlier went?”

The nurse glanced at Clarke briefly over her clipboard. “Bellamy? He headed down to the cafeteria about 20 minutes ago. Lord knows that boy needs to eat.”

Clarke frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Honey,” the nurse said heavily, sitting down in the seat next to the bed. “That boy has hardly left your side for two days. Barely eating, barely sleeping on that awful little couch over there. He goes home to shower and change his clothes, and you can tell he doesn’t wanna even do that.”

Guilt began to creep like vines over the wall of numbness built up in Clarke’s brain.

“Sometimes when I come in late at night, in the middle of my graveyard shift, I can hear him crying. His eyes are always lookin’ so bloodshot.” The nurse shook her head. “I never seen no bodyguard cry like that over his employer.”

A lump rose in Clarke’s throat.

The nurse poured some water from a bottle into a paper cup. “Here, drink this with your pills.” She handed a separate cup with two little white pills at the bottom to Clarke.

“What are these?” Clarke croaked, not realizing how dry her throat was.

“Muscle relaxers, for all that soreness.”

Clarke quickly swallowed them down. She was slowly becoming aware of how uncomfortable it was for her to sit upright.

The nurse patted Clarke’s knee over the thin hospital blankets. “I know you’re feeling unhappy right now, honey, but I hope you know that you couldn’t have left this world without leaving hurt behind you. Sometimes people feel like it won’t matter, because no one would miss them or some foolish notion like that. But if that boy’s been crying over you this much and you’re alive, try to imagine how he’d feel if you weren’t.”

Clarke’s brows drew together. She didn’t need to be guilt-tripped. She’d torn herself to pieces even before, knowing that she was going to hurt Bellamy.

A shadow crossed Clarke’s mind, and she turned back to the nurse, who was gesturing for her to finish the rest of her water. Clarke gulped it down and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

“What’s your name?” The nurse tilted her ID badge into Clarke’s line of vision: Gloria.

“Gloria, did anyone else come to visit me while I was out?”

The nurse’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Clarke knew the answer before she even heard it.

She guessed her mother really had meant it when she’d said that Clarke was no longer “any daughter of hers.”

Clarke stared dully into the space in front of her as the nurse left the room.

By the time Bellamy came shuffling back into her room, the muscle relaxers had begun to work, and Clarke was leaned back into the pillow, feeling loose-limbed and somehow tired again.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, his body turned toward her. His hand reached for hers, grasping it gently as he avoided the tubes of her IV.

Clarke’s eyes roved over him, over his mussed hair and dark circles and downturned mouth. Over the muscles of his shoulders that showed beneath his long-sleeved henley. She craved sleep, specifically within the safety of his warm arms. She would stay there forever if she could.

“Bellamy, are you still my bodyguard?” She asked suddenly, a lightning-bolt fear striking her that she might have jeopardized his job with the stunt that she’d pulled.

Bellamy tried to smile, but his lips shaped into something closer to a grimace.

“I am,” he replied quietly, his thumb rubbing over the lines of her palm. “A few people thought I should be fired for negligence, but most of the head officers in the secret service concluded that I didn’t make any missteps, and that I was still the best person to monitor you in here.”

Clarke’s shoulders drooped slightly with relief. She nodded faintly in his direction.

“I’m sorry if I-”

“Clarke, I need to tell you something,” Bellamy cut her off, his hand squeezing hers a little tighter. With his other arm, he tucked her hair away from her face and behind her ear, the graze of his fingertips sending shivers down the back of Clarke’s neck.

In her slightly drugged state, she still felt her stomach clench anxiously at his words.

She was sure he was still angry with her. Disappointed in her. And she deserved all of that. He would totally be in the-

“I love you.”

Bellamy’s voice was tense, thicker than usual as he leaned toward her, his deep brown eyes threatening to swallow her whole. “I’m _in_ love with you. I should have told you sooner.” His voice cracked, and he broke his gaze, bowing his head shyly toward his shoulder.

“I should have told you a long time ago.”

The words swelled between them, washing the room with warm silence.

Something in Clarke’s soul cracked -- gently, like an eggshell or a sheet of ice. Something like hope began to shine through the jagged gaps, like a timid sunbeam after a storm.

The feeling didn’t spread like heat through her bones or like a wave on the sand, but it stayed, faint yet steadfast, in a little corner of her heart.

She didn’t know yet if there would ever be a place for it. For all she knew, it would be extinguished come morning. But for now, it was there, and she clung to it.

A tear trickled down Clarke’s face as she nodded at him, unable to speak.

“You should sleep,” he said finally. “I can tell the Flexiril is dragging you under.” He lifted her palm to his lips and kissed it softly. Clarke’s slow, plodding heartbeat spiked at the touch of his mouth on her skin.

Bellamy flicked the light off, leaving the two of them in the glow of Clarke’s monitors and machines as he curled up under a spare blanket on the cramped loveseat.

“Bellamy,” Clarke finally managed to get out. “Please don’t sleep over there.”

“I guess I can risk the nurses’ wrath for one more night,” his voice spoke in the darkness, and Clarke felt the heat of his body pressing against hers as he climbed under the blankets and wrapped his arm over her.

Clarke’s heart lurched again as she snuggled in closer, her nose brushing his collarbone.

“Bellamy?”

“Hm?” His tired voice murmured in his throat above her.

Heat crept into Clarke’s cheeks as her body relaxed against him, her tired muscles and bones melting into his.

_She loved him too._

The words stuck in her mouth. She wasn’t even sure if she deserved to say them right now.

She wondered if he knew.

She wanted him to know.

Maybe another night.

“Thank you for staying,” she finally said, her voice catching in her throat.

She thought she felt his lips brush against her hairline as sleep began to drag her back under.

…

“Today’s the day, baby girl. You ready for a change of scenery?” Gloria smiled gently as Clarke gingerly picked up a pair of real, non-hospital socks for the first time in a week.

Clarke shrugged weakly, wincing as she bent over. Bellamy realized suddenly that her ribs were nowhere near healed, and that her chest probably felt like it was on fire with that simple motion.

“Here, let me do that,” he said suddenly, crossing the room and taking the thick, argyle-knit socks from her cold hands.

“You don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” Bellamy interrupted her protesting. “I’ve had broken ribs before. I know how much it sucks,” he said in a voice lighter than he felt as he carefully tugged the socks on her one foot at a time.

He wanted to help.

He was the reason she had broken ribs, after all.

It was quiet behind the darkly-tinted windows of the car that escorted the two of them to the rehab facility. Bellamy’s orders as live-in bodyguard still hadn’t lifted - apparently, _someone_ in the White House still considered Clarke as the first daughter - and he was curious to see what the place that he’d be spending the next few weeks would be like.

He was also scared as _hell_, but he was trying not to show it.

If this couldn’t get Clarke’s mind to a healthier place, it felt like there were no other options left.

He’d wanted to scream sitting in the Secret Service office during his most recent briefing, where he’d learned that the White House was refusing to send Clarke to any kind of full psychological rehabilitation -- whether out of spite or simple avoidance of the taboo for PR reasons, he’d never know. Instead, they were headed to some kind of “retreat,” a place that Bellamy imagined was the rip-off rehab that reality stars went to sometimes when they were losing grip on their careers. Just some informal chats with “counselors,” a spa, squash courts, and indoor swimming pools.

Bellamy wasn’t sure how any of it would help at all, but he was praying for a miracle.

“Miss Griffin!” a cheerful, slim woman with giant sunglasses on despite the overcast sky greeted them as they stepped out of the car. Next to him, Clarke shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, not meeting anyone’s eye as she wrapped a blanket tighter around herself in the cool spring air.

“We’ve got the fourth floor all ready for you! Please come on in and get settled. The paperwork has all been taken care of already.”

Bellamy frowned. The whole floor to themselves?

Was the White House just sending her to another glamorous isolation ward? Hiding Clarke away from Pennsylvania Avenue until she was acceptable to the administration again?

Bellamy’s jaw clenched, but he trailed closely behind Clarke as she walked through the portico and into the expansive stucco complex, the light from inside the polished lobby blindingly white.

“You’ve already been checked in, Miss Griffin. If you would just follow me,” the woman motioned for them to join her in the bright, stainless steel-and-glass elevator. The ride up to the fourth floor was heavily silent, and Bellamy felt Clarke’s shoulder lean against him. He crossed his arms and surreptitiously grazed the back of her elbow with his knuckles.

The elevator dinged and the door opened to a much dimmer space than the lobby had been below them. The hallway was painted in neutral shades of cream and beige, and light poured in from one large, lone window at the end of it.

“We’ve kept this entire floor empty for the sake of the first family’s privacy,” their tour guide assured them in a falsely-warm tone. She gestured to her right, towards a closed wooden door. “Here we have the library and media room, for your entertainment.”

Bellamy glanced sidelong at Clarke. Her face was impassive, her chin tilted toward the ground as her eyes barely followed the woman showing them around.

This wasn’t a good start.

“And here is your suite.” The woman pushed open a door further down the hallway on the left. Bellamy let Clarke lead the way, gently resting his hand on the small of her back as they crossed the threshold.

The room was a bit spartan -- he wasn’t sure why he expected much else. A small, square dining room table and two chairs were placed in the corner near the mini fridge, sink, and small kitchenette cabinets. The living area was covered by a plain white rug, and on top of it were an L-shaped brown suede couch and matching armchair. A flatscreen TV rested on top of a wooden media center, its shelves empty.

“The two bedrooms are identical, so feel free to choose however you see fit,” the woman smiled.

Bellamy and Clarke avoided each others’ gaze.

“Miss Griffin, your weekly counseling sessions will be on Tuesdays at 2 PM in the library. Mr. Blake will be stationed outside the door for those sessions unless you request otherwise.”

Two facility staff members suddenly appeared in the doorway, carrying Bellamy and Clarke’s luggage.

“I’ll leave you two to unpack. Your pantry is stocked with beverages and breakfast food items, and your lunches and dinners will be delivered at noon and 7 PM respectively. Any questions?”

Clarke suddenly cleared her throat beside Bellamy, almost startling him.

“Um, what’s on the other floors? Can I see?” Clarke’s voice was still rough from lack of use during her recovery.

The woman’s smile tightened. “Oh, there’s no need for that. It’s been requested that we keep you nice and comfortable up on this floor alone, for security purposes. There is a squash court and an indoor pool in our outbuilding. You’re welcome to use them as long as you put in a request at least a few hours ahead of time so they can be cleared for you.”

Frowning as he remembered something she’d said a few moments ago, Bellamy spoke up. “I’m sorry, did you say weekly counseling sessions? As in once a week?”

“I did,” the guide replied with manufactured pep.

Bellamy’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you think that they should be meeting with her more than that? Or what about group sessions, aren’t those popular here?”

Though the smile stayed on the woman’s face, her eyes began to frost over as they remained on Bellamy.

“The White House advised that one session per week is all that will be necessary. Any group activities have been expressly forbidden, again, for security purposes.”

Bellamy felt his jaw clench involuntarily. “Right. That’ll be all then, thanks.” He nodded curtly at the woman, whose smile finally began to slide as she slipped from the room.

Silence rang out as the two of them stood in the poorly lit room, motionless, staring at the closed door.

Clarke silently picked up her duffel bag and shuffled into the bedroom on the right.

Bellamy looked down at his hands, stretched out in front of him.

They were shaking with anger.

His suspicions had been right.

Clarke was being thrown in isolation again. Being kept out of sight of the Griffin administration and their flock of loyal press.

Being denied freedom, being denied basic human interaction, and being denied all but the most basic of psychological help.

She would never get better here.

Bellamy had the overwhelming urge to break something.

He kicked his duffel bag hard with his boot before he picked it up and dragged it into the bedroom on the left.

…

Clarke awoke to hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her. She wrenched her eyes open in alarm.

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice seeped into her ears, spiked with fear.

Her bleary gaze roved, and Bellamy’s face finally swirled into focus, the rest of the room following.

“Mm?” Clarke groaned, frowning.

She heard Bellamy exhale shakily. “You weren’t responding when I called your name.” His hands stayed on her shoulders, his thumbs soft near her collarbones. “Sorry.” Clarke really did feel bad. She’d put him through so much lately.

Too much.

“I must’ve dozed off. Today was busy compared to the usual, I guess.”

Bellamy sighed, lifting a hand to rub it over his face. “It’s okay. I overreacted.” Clarke shook her head, unable to speak around the sudden lump in her throat.

Bellamy shifted further onto her bed, leaning back against the headboard. He wrapped an arm behind her and drew her into his shoulder.

The warmth of his skin beneath his shirt made Clarke’s eyes immediately begin to droop again.

She was with Bellamy. She was warm and she was safe.

And she was loved.

…

“Come get me if anything goes wrong. If you don’t want to talk to her anymore we can go straight back to the room, okay?”

Clarke nodded listlessly.

She didn’t feel afraid, exactly. She just didn’t want to drag everything broken inside her back up again. She didn’t want to reopen wounds with the shards of herself. Especially not in front of a stranger.

Clarke wasn’t sure how therapy could even make a difference here.

The problem wasn’t inside Clarke. It was everything else around her.

Nothing could make her current circumstances worth living through.

Clarke desperately wanted to weave her fingers through Bellamy’s, but she’d seen the security cameras in the hallway coming in.

She was never going to jeopardize his job again.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Bellamy said as they dwindled to a halt in front of the media room where the sessions would be held.

Clarke stopped and raised her eyes to his face -- something she still struggled to do some days. His brows were drawn down low over his eyes, the expression in them a muddled mixture of exhaustion, fear, and maybe something like hope.

Clarke didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her healing ribs began to protest.

She didn’t want to break his heart again, but she didn’t see how anything was ever going to get better.

She gave him a silent nod of her head as she opened the door and slipped into the room.

“What is it about yourself that makes you unhappy, Clarke?” The middle-aged woman with short, curly brown hair leaned toward Clarke over her clipboard, sitting on the edge of her mint-green armchair.

Clarke ground her teeth. This wasn’t going how she’d expected at all, and while she was happy the psychiatrist didn’t go straight for the jugular and ask Clarke about her self-destructive behavior, the vague, unproductive questions she’d been asking instead were definitely feeling like a waste of time.

Given how spiteful the White House seemed to be lately, Clarke wouldn’t even be surprised if this woman wasn’t a psychiatrist at all, but someone uncredentialed who’d been paid off just to make it _look_ like Clarke was being given help.

“Well, I’ve always wished I was taller,” Clarke said dryly, curling her fingers into the cuffs of her sweater sleeves.

“Understandable, understandable,” the woman repeated in a monotone, writing a short note on her clipboard. Clarke fought against the urge to roll her eyes.

“What about your actions, Clarke? What do you not like about what you do?”

“I don’t _do_ anything. That’s the problem,” Clarke said sharply.

The woman paused. “Well, yes. I could see how that would be tedious.” She bit the cap of her plastic pen. “It’s been said that you have a selfish streak, dear. What do you say to that?”

Clarke’s head snapped to attention. “Nice use of passive voice in that sentence there. I have to ask -- by _whom_ has that been said to you?”

The woman’s eyes looked almost glassy behind her large, rectangular spectacles. “That’s no matter, dear. Clearly something about that statement bothers you. Care to talk about it?”

“Can’t say that I do.” Clarke folded her arms, leaning back stiffly against the tan corduroy of the couch.

“You know, selfishness usually ends up hurting others,” the woman said, her voice stiff with triteness.

_Hurting their chances at fucking over international diplomacy,_ Clarke thought derisively to herself.

_Hurting the man who’s stood by your side this whole time,_ another, smaller voice within her spoke up. Clarke swallowed thickly.

She realized the psychiatrist was still staring at her expectantly. Clarke blinked back, silently. She had nothing she wanted to say about this.

“Well, let’s try another topic, shall we?” The clipboard was consulted once again. “What about your love life? That always has such a big impact on the emotions at your age. What’s been going on with you there? Any special men in your life? Something didn’t go the way you wanted it, perhaps?”

_Was this woman sent by a tabloid? _A strange feeling began to bubble in Clarke’s stomach. A feeling she hadn’t felt more than a ghost of in weeks.

Anger.

“You know what, Susan? May I call you Susan?” Clarke didn’t pause to wait for an answer. “I really think that’s enough for today. I’d like to go back to my room and rest. My body’s still healing and I don’t feel like being up and about anymore just now.”

Clarke got to her feet as Susan, shell-shocked, pored askance over her clipboard, perhaps looking for the next line of the script. Clarke yanked the door open and disappeared out into the hall before the woman could say another word.

“That’s all until next week,” Clarke said to Bellamy, forcing a breeziness into her voice that she didn’t really feel.

She set off as briskly as she could back down the hallway. Her ribs ached, burning in protest, and by the time Bellamy unlocked and pushed open the suite door for her, she was panting.

“Clarke, hey,” Bellamy said suddenly, locking the door and shoving the keys back into his pocket. “Take it easy, all right? You’re not healed yet.”

The anger was still building within Clarke. She’d forgot how to feel it. How to control it. A strangled scream of frustration left her lips, and her fists slammed against the countertop.

“Whoa, easy,” Bellamy’s low voice was tinged with alarm. “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched hers anxiously.

“Nothing is different!” Clarke bit out angrily, hopelessly. “Nothing is different here, Bellamy.” She hastily swatted away hot, angry tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. “They’ve got me trapped up here, alone on this whole floor. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t see anyone. I’m pretty sure that shrink isn’t even a fucking real shrink.” Clarke stopped to catch her breath, trying to tamp down on a sob that she knew would feel like murder on her healing ribs. “She didn’t mention anything that’s happened. She didn’t ask me what’s wrong. She just pointed out my ‘weak points’ and asked about my dating life. What the _fuck_ is that supposed to accomplish? The White House won’t even let me have real psychological help. They don’t want me to. They just want it to _look_ that way. My mother doesn’t care about me, Bellamy.” The sob threatened even harder to rip through her lungs and past her lips. “She just cares about how it all looks to everyone.”

Bellamy’s expression darkened. “I was afraid of this.” He turned away from her suddenly, pacing the tiny kitchen. “I was afraid of this.” Clarke saw his hands curl into fists. He stopped pacing, and his body tensed. She couldn’t see his face.

Fast as lightning, he swiveled to face her. “Clarke, listen to me. I don’t think you can get out of those weekly sessions, even if they’re not real. Do you think you can get through them just to keep up appearances? Just one hour a week? Even if it’s total bullshit?”

Trying to swallow down her anger, Clarke nodded reluctantly.

“I’ve been trying to figure things out here, Clarke, and I don’t think you’re going to have much choice in anything. For all intents and purposes, you’re still under house arrest. Wells texted me earlier saying he tried to visit you, but apparently no one’s allowed. He said he’s here to talk on my phone if you need to.”

Clarke sighed. She didn’t deserve Wells. Loyal, genuine, kind-hearted Wells. But something in her was ashamed to speak to him now. She was embarrassed over what she did. And she felt guilty for not saying goodbye.

“I don’t think I’m ready to talk to anyone just yet,” Clarke said softly, her eyes falling to the floor again.

“He’ll understand.”

Clarke couldn’t bring herself to look up at Bellamy again.

She was just so _tired_. Exhausted of being in her own skin.

“Clarke,” Bellamy summoned her gaze with his voice, tentative, sweet, and low enough to crack as he spoke her name.

His warm hand fell gently against her neck, his fingers covering her pulse and his thumb brushing her cheek just above her jaw.

“We’ll figure something out, okay? We will.”

Clarke’s heart lurched achingly. “That’s not your job, Bellamy.”

His earnest face tugged at something deep in her chest. “Everything about you stopped being just my job a long time ago, Clarke.” He leaned down, pressing his lips softly to her forehead.

_We’ll figure something out._

Clarke didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t his fault.

She let the ache of her ribs rise dully as she wrapped her arms around his middle, wishing she could disappear into him.

…

“I’m surprised you put in a request for this, honestly,” Bellamy said, feeling a bit odd in his usual uniform as he followed Clarke into the deserted indoor swimming pool house, the smell of chlorine hitting his nose about as subtly as a mean right hook. Clarke slipped off her shoes inside the threshold, still keeping the oversized beach towel wrapped over her shoulders and around her body.

“It’s about the only thing I can do down here,” Clarke said matter-of-factly. “Can’t really play racquetball after you broke my ribs, can I?”

Bellamy winced. It still felt like something too dark to joke about, but for all he knew, making light of the situation helped her feel better about it. He grimaced back at her playfully.

“Floating can’t hurt me,” she mused, turning her back to him as she dropped the towel.

Bellamy snorted a laugh when he caught sight of the pattern on her bikini.

“Is that the only swimsuit they had to loan out?” He chuckled at the glaringly bright neon yellow two-piece, speckled with equally bright neon pink turtles.

Clarke glared at him over her shoulder. “Yes,” she ground out before stepping off the ledge and into the deep end.

Bellamy settled into a plastic chair, waiting for her to emerge. She surfaced, doing a few breaststrokes. Her ankle kicked above water, and Bellamy was reminded again of how happy he was to see it free of the monitoring bracelet.

She finally paused, treading water, and turned to look at him, her hair plastered to her face.

“That was another thing I wanted to be when I was a little kid,” she said suddenly. “A mermaid. I used to swim with my legs together and pretend they were a tail, even.”

Bellamy grinned, trying to picture it. It sent another memory up cycling through his brain, one he’d almost forgotten. One that pinched at his heart.

“Octavia did the exact same thing. Everyone at the public pool got so fed up with her sitting on the diving board with her legs together, trying to sing songs from _The Little Mermaid_.”

Clarke swam to the edge of the pool, resting her arms on the concrete. “Sounds cute.”

“It was.”

Bellamy felt sadness begin to creep over him. In all the chaos, he’d been able to push missing his sister to a backburner in his heart. Right now, it wasn’t working so well.

“Hey, come here,” Clarke suddenly said, patting the concrete in front of her.

Bellamy rose from his chair without thinking. “What is it?”

“I have to tell you something.”

Bellamy’s heart pattered irregularly. He wasn’t going to pretend that he hadn’t noticed that him telling Clarke he was in love with her had gone unanswered. Not that he felt she owed him anything -- not at all. Maybe she didn’t feel the same way. Or even if she did, so much had happened, things were so complicated…

But he couldn’t forget the way that she’d kissed him. More than once.

What if she was about to…?

He crouched down next to Clarke, getting as close to her level as he could.

Her eyes met his cautiously.

“What is it, Clarke?” he asked her again, tucking a strand of dripping hair behind her ear.

Clarke reached toward him, gripping his shirt collar in her hands. Pulling him toward her.

And into the pool.

Realization of what had happened hit Bellamy as soon as he felt the water seeping into his boots and through his socks.

He pushed himself to the surface, thrashing in disbelief and shaking water from his hair.

“I can’t fucking _believe _you!” Bellamy shoved a wave of water in her face, not exactly pleased, but not quite angry.

Clarke laughed, blinking water from her eyes.

The sound of her laughter rang out between the two of them in the humid, empty pool house. They both fell silent, their gazes locked on each other.

It was the first time she had laughed since she’d almost died.

Something brimmed in Bellamy’s chest. A delicate bubble, warm, in danger of bursting at any time.

Clarke’s laugh was the most beautiful thing he’d heard in weeks.

He couldn’t be mad at her now.

“You’re a little minx, is what you are,” he said finally, unable to keep back a twisted smile as he flicked more water toward her.

She shrugged her shoulders smugly as she leaned into the water, lifting her legs as she floated on her back.

The bubble in Bellamy’s chest burst like the snap of a rubber band at the sight of her skin.

Clarke had been wrapped up in long sleeves, in sweatshirts and in blankets ever since the hospital. He’d almost forgotten what was hidden beneath.

Faded reddish-purple slash marks covered her hips. Similar, less faded ones laddered up the insides of her forearms. The faint scar from the taser still showed near her collarbone, and the burn on her palm still shone pink.

Inescapable physical proof of how badly Clarke was hurting inside.

The sight of them again made Bellamy’s heart drop into his stomach. He forced himself to look away.

He caught Clarke’s eye only briefly as she averted her gaze, realizing what Bellamy had seen. Maybe she’d even forgotten about the scars herself. Bellamy had noticed how she’d avoided looking in reflective surfaces lately.

Clarke’s cheeks began to turn red, and she moved to lower her feet back down to the bottom of the pool, hiding her body beneath the surface.

Something in Bellamy protested.

He didn’t want her to feel ashamed.

“No,” he heard himself say quietly, his limbs heavy with his waterlogged clothes as he swam toward her.

He snaked an arm around Clarke’s back, feeling the tickle of her bikini tie flowing in the water over his fingers. He reached down and hooked a forearm beneath her knees.

She was weightless as he held her in the water.

Though her cheeks were still red, she didn’t protest. She didn’t meet his eyes, but she didn’t swim away, either. Instead, she leaned her head back into the water, letting her hair fan out behind her and slowly closing her eyes.

“Sorry for pulling you in,” she said softly, her arms spreading out on either side of them in a vaguely-Superman pose.

“Are you?” Bellamy teased, spinning them in a slow, listless circle, taking in the high, hollow sound of water dripping from his hair as he moved.

“Not really,” she replied with the tiniest of grins, her eyes still closed.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Bellamy asked suddenly, gently rubbing his thumb against the side of her rib cage, just beneath the hem of her bikini top.

Clarke shook her head. “You never do.”

Bellamy’s heart lurched. As if sensing the irregular beat, Clarke’s eyes snapped open, though she wasn’t looking at him.

“Clarke…?” her eyes were fixated on some point behind him.

He followed her gaze.

A black security camera was attached to the corner of the ceiling, trained exactly in their direction.

Bellamy cursed inwardly as Clarke slipped out of his arms and walked gingerly toward the steps of the pool.

What was happening to him? He should have noticed it. He should have remembered it would be there.

He followed Clarke at a distance, grimacing at the heavy weight of his drenched uniform clinging to his body.

Clarke hastily wrapped herself back up in the giant towel.

She spoke to him without really looking at him.

“I’d give this to you, but-” she broke off, swallowing thickly.

“I know,” Bellamy said, nodding. He stopped himself from reaching out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

The two of them traipsed back to the fourth floor in silence, both of their shoes squelching against the tile leading to the elevator.

Bellamy was suddenly very grateful that they both had their own showers now as he shivered, slipping behind Clarke back into their suite.

They said nothing to each other as they went their own separate ways.

…

Clarke ground her teeth as the dubiously-credentialed psychiatrist scribbled something on her clipboard. This was their fourth session, and Clarke felt like each time was worse than the last. Inappropriate questions, unhelpful advice, intrusive prodding about things that weren’t relevant -- it was all terrible.

Clarke had tried refusing to go, but it seemed that she had no say in the matter and in-house security would come and force her to march down the hall and into the session room.

She’d tried staying silent the entire time, but the woman would push her buttons so badly that she couldn’t help but verbally lash back at her.

Nothing was getting better.

“Your persona seems not to mesh well with your mother’s administration. Why do you think that is?”

“Persona?” Clarke spat out. “What persona? I was only ever myself.” Clarke huffed angrily. “You know what, no. I amend that statement. I was as much myself as I could be through the heavy constraints placed on me by White House PR and security.”

“It doesn’t seem as if you tried very hard to make things easier for your mother,” The woman said coolly over her clipboard.

“I’m sorry, isn’t this supposed to make me want to _not_ try and kill myself again? Because it’s not working.”

Clarke knew that was probably over the line of her to say, but she was tired, fed up, and still wildly unhappy. What was the point of this?

“You know, many would say that would be very selfish of you. Can you tell me why everything always has to be about you, now?”

“None of this would be a problem if everyone had just let me _fucking_ die!” Clarke shouted, shaking as she stood up from her chair. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, and tears threatened to spill over. She sniffed them back.

She was so tired. She was still so trapped.

The psychiatrist’s composure remained, steely and resolute. She hummed absent-mindedly to herself as she wrote another note on her clipboard.

Clarke was suddenly intensely embarrassed. She felt so helpless, standing there, shaking and crying, while the woman across from her sat casually, wholly unbothered by Clarke’s emotional turmoil.

Clarke’s head whipped around as she heard the door open. Bellamy appeared around the doorframe, his expression unreadable. His fist was closed tightly around the doorknob, his knuckles white.

“Clarke, I think it’s time to go back,” he said, struggling to keep his tone light. His eyes danced from Clarke’s shaking hands to the psychiatrist’s flat expression. “Come on.” He nodded toward the door.

Clenching her fists to keep from trembling, Clarke avoided his eyes as she ducked past him and into the hallway.

Her life lately just seemed to be a sequence of continuous humiliation.

Bellamy waited until the suite door was closed behind them to let his guard down.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, his hand reaching behind her neck to weave into her still-short hair, his palm warming her nape.

Clarke’s heart pulsed sluggishly.

She didn’t want all of her misery to come boiling back to the surface again. She couldn’t bear it now. She always wanted to imagine herself as tough, hard like steel, but lately she felt as breakable as a christmas ornament.

“I don’t think I can do that much longer,” she mumbled, leaning her hot cheek to nuzzle the inside of his wrist. “You heard some of that in there, didn’t you?”

Bellamy’s lips twisted grimly. He said nothing.

“It’s _bullshit_,” she said tiredly. “Bullshit.”

“I know,” he said gently, his hand sliding down to grip her shoulder comfortingly. “Let’s watch a movie, huh? Take your mind off of it?”

Clarke nodded absently, sinking down onto the couch and hunting for the remote.

An hour into _National Treasure_, Clarke was still restless. As Nicholas Cage was finally stealing the Declaration of Independence, she got up silently to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, just to give herself something to do.

As she took a sip, the drawer she tried to avoid looking at perversely caught her eye.

The knife drawer.

It was under a lock that only Bellamy had the key to.

She couldn’t even cut off her own sandwich crusts without permission now.

She was never going to be free.

Her empty glass clattered into the sink as tears blurred her vision for the second time today.

She turned her head away from Bellamy as she trudged back to the living area.

“Hey,” she felt his hand reach out and wrap around her wrist as she stepped past him. “What’s wrong?”

Of course he noticed.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice cracking in betrayal.

“It’s not nothing, Clarke. You can talk to me, all right?”

“I’m-” Clarke hiccuped, the sob catching in her throat. “Nothing is better, Bellamy. I’m just so fucking _stuck._ I don’t think I can ever get out.” Saying the words out loud made her cry harder, to her shame.

Bellamy tugged on her wrist, dragging her toward his knees. Gently, he pulled her down and onto his lap, draping an arm around her hip and tucking her head against his shoulder. Clarke buried her face in his neck, trying to drown herself in his warmth and the scent of his soap.

The softness of his hand on the back of her head, gently stroking down her hair, tugged at her heartstrings, making the tears stream down her face even more profusely.

“I’m so _sick_ of crying,” she said wearily, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Bellamy.”

“You’re allowed to cry, Clarke. God knows you have reasons to.” His thumb rubbed gently back and forth over her hip as he tucked her closer against him. “It’s okay to cry,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

Still trembling, Clarke wrapped her arms around Bellamy’s neck and kissed the soft, tear-soaked skin of his neck.

If Clarke was sure of anything anymore, she was sure that she loved Bellamy more than anything left in the world.

And she hated that he made a small part of her want to live.

…

Bellamy was woken up by the sound of...nothing, really.

It was too quiet.

Clarke breathed softly next to him, tangled up in a heavy-knit blanket.

She said she couldn’t sleep without him, but at this point, he questioned if it wasn’t the other way around.

Usually the sound of birds in the sky or wind softly rustling the trees filtered through the window.

This morning, there was nothing.

Noticing the air was slightly chillier than usual, Bellamy reluctantly slid out from under the covers to change the thermostat.

The sight of the courtyard caught his eye.

A smooth blanket of snow covered the grounds, coating the tree branches and silencing the outside world. The sky above felt endless -- pale and white.

Smiling to himself, Bellamy crossed the room and gently shook Clarke’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly, grinning at the little groan she emitted as she rolled her face toward him. Her eyes opened slowly, impeded with sleep.

Beautiful seawater eyes.

“Come look outside,” he said in a low voice, extending out a hand toward her. She took it, slowly pulling herself out of bed.

“It’s so cold,” she murmured, stumbling behind him.

“What’s outside? Oh-” Clarke pressed her nose to the glass, her breath fogging it up in a small semicircle.

“It’s crazy to see snow this late in the year,” Bellamy agreed, lowering his chin to rest on her shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her middle. It was a struggle not to bury his face in the hair by her neck as she rested her arms on top of his.

Clarke closed her eyes, sighing.

“What are you thinking, Clarke?” He whispered before he could stop to consider that he might not want to know.

“I was thinking of Christmas and Camp David and the snow there,” she said in a small voice, her tone almost wistful. She turned her head toward him. Her eyes searched for his as their noses brushed against each other.

“Can we go outside?” She asked, biting her lip.

It probably broke protocol, but it was still early, and Bellamy didn’t see anyone else in the courtyard. “Meet you in the kitchen in five,” he nodded.

Clarke reappeared exactly five minutes later, bundled up in a wool peacoat and a knit hat with a yarn pompom on top.

“No mittens?” he asked.

“I don’t have any. Didn’t think I’d need them,” she shrugged, shoving her hands into her coat pocket.

“Let’s go,” he said, cracking open the door and peering out into the hallway.

They sneaked down the back stairs, and the cold air went through Bellamy like a whip as he opened the door to the courtyard.

“_Jesus,_” he muttered, regretting that he too had failed to pack any gloves.

Clarke slipped past him, her boots making small, tentative footprints in the snow. It looked to be an impressive six or so inches deep.

Clarke turned around to face him as she reached a smooth, open patch of snow. Giving him the tiniest of smiles, she held out her arms to the sides and fell backwards, landing in snow-angel position in the dense, wet snow.

“You’re going to be a popsicle in like, 30 seconds,” Bellamy laughed, shaking his head.

She stared up at him as he stood over her, her blonde strands standing out around her head like a halo.

“Well, help me up, then,” she said breezily, extending a hand in the air toward him.

“You’re just going to yank me into the snow like you did at the pool,” he rolled his eyes.

“Fine.” Clarke clambered to her knees, soaking the fabric of her leggings before she pulled herself up to her feet.

Bellamy didn’t even have time to flinch as he was hit in the face with a snowball at point-blank range.

“You’re a monster, Clarke Griffin,” he called out as she hurried away, taking refuge behind a tree as she laughed.

Bellamy knelt and scooped up a handful of snow, quickly molding it into ammunition. He hurled it expertly between the branches, laughing as it smacked her head.

She laughed too as she shook the snow from her hat.

The joy on her face, however fleeting, made Bellamy’s heart soar.

Bellamy grinned as he suddenly remembered a bad joke he’d heard in a bar once.

“Hey Clarke! Why didn’t the whistleblower fly home to America?”

Clarke eyed him dubiously, frowning as she finally walked back toward him. “Is this a joke? I really doubt this will be a funny joke.”

“Because he was Snowden.” Bellamy grinned cheekily at the delivery of such a bad line.

Clarke’s eyes met his, poised to roll in derision, but her expression suddenly froze. A hand flew to her forehead, her eyes widening with every second that passed.

Maybe there was still a way out.

Her mind had been too dark, too used to inaction to think of it before now.

“Clarke.” She heard alarm rising in his voice. He closed the gap between them and grasped her arm. “Clarke, what is it?”

Her eyes met his, round, stricken.

There was one last chance.

She was going to try.

She was going to try and live.

“Snowden,” she repeated.


	10. Free At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a plan is set in motion, Clarke flies, and Bellamy fights for his home.

Bellamy traipsed across the lobby tile and into the elevator. No one was around but the receptionist at this hour. The bright, warm lights of the building were a contrast to the springtime storm outside in the night.

Thank god at least one of them was allowed to come and go as they pleased.

Bellamy resisted the urge to whistle cheerfully down the hallway.

His heart had felt lighter with every day that had passed since the woman he loved had decided to live.

Clarke was sitting in silence on the couch when he walked back into their suite, her eyes trained on the door and her arms wrapped around her knees.

“I’ve got it,” he told her before she could speak, drawing a heavy yellow envelope from inside his jacket.

Clarke’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Oh my god,” she laughed in disbelief, her hand covering her mouth. “This is going to work. It’s actually going to work.”

“It just might,” Bellamy grinned, toeing off his boots and sinking down next to her. “The Swiss government sees what you did as heroic. They’ve already gotten a cottage ready for you outside Geneva and are apparently prepared to offer any security needed during your tenure of asylum there.”

Clarke bit her lip. “Can I see it?” She stretched her hand out toward him tentatively.

“_Pénélope Godard_,” Clarke read from the expertly-produced counterfeit Swiss passport.

“It’s a good thing they taught you French in middle school. And high school.”

“_Oui. Dieu merci_,” Clarke replied in perfectly accented French. “What else is in the envelope?” She asked him, her brow furrowing at its thickness.

Swallowing thickly, Bellamy reached into the envelope and pulled out the plane tickets.

There were two sets.

“Bellamy, what…?” Clarke’s eyes roved his face, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Bellamy said quietly, holding her gaze.

“Bellamy.” Clarke dropped the tickets on the table, reaching for his arm. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

Bellamy’s heart plummeted toward his stomach like an elevator with snapped cables. He hadn’t imagined a scenario where he _wasn’t_ going with her.

He suddenly felt very stupid. _He’d overestimated his importance to her._ Color began to warm his cheeks. His gaze fell away from hers.

“You don’t want me to go.” A statement, not a question.

He heard Clarke’s sharp intake of breath.

“Bellamy, no.” Her hand held tighter to his wrist. “I mean, that’s not what I meant.” She shook her head. “Listen. You’re not the political refugee here. You can _walk away_ from this, Bellamy. Live a normal life. I don’t think so much of myself that I can just ask someone to leave their entire life behind - to totally uproot themselves - and tie themselves to someone who’s barely more than an international fugitive.”

Clarke leaned toward him, so close he could smell her honey-scented soap. “You’ve already done so much for me, Bellamy. I can’t ask for your life on a whim like this.”

“I don’t think you understand, Clarke.” Bellamy frowned as he turned away from her, fishing around in the envelope. He pulled out a second forged passport.

Clarke opened it. Inside was a headshot of Bellamy with a name written next to it: _Ulysse Godard. _

“I don’t want to stay here if you’re gone.” Bellamy’s heart slammed in his chest. His nerves, his skin all felt raw, crawling with vulnerability.

She could destroy him right now with a single word.

Clarke’s eyes shone, reflecting the low, warm light of the room as she leaned in, their faces just inches apart.

“Well then,” she breathed. “Come with me,” she whispered, her palm warm against his cheek.

Bellamy’s breath caught in his throat. “That’s the plan,” he whispered back, his eyes dancing between hers.

Clarke’s slow, soft mouth fell on his, and his eyes fluttered shut. Bellamy’s heart felt fit to burst as her fingers threaded through the hair on the back of his head.

She hadn’t kissed him since before everything had fallen apart.

This time, she laughed as the bristle of his five o’clock shadow scraped her rosy cheeks.

…

“Let’s go over the plan one more time,” Clarke said, pacing the carpet in the living area. She startled at the sight of her reflection in the window -- she still wasn’t used to it. Her short blonde waves were blonde no more, but a bright, bubblegum pink.

Less recognizable to the public than her trademark hair color.

“We’re sneaking out tonight using the signal blocker my contact sent us,” Bellamy began, tossing a t-shirt into his duffle bag.

“We’ll be met by someone from the Swiss consulate outside the gate who will escort us to the airport for the red-eye flight,” Clarke continued, the gears turning in her head as she tried to remember every single backup plan, keep in mind every single thing that could go wrong.

Bellamy nodded. “You’re a Genevan native. Speak in French first, then broken English if you’re asked to clarify. I’m your husband, who has a speaking disability. I won’t be saying anything. We’re going home after a short vacation to America’s capital city.”

Clarke curled her hands into fists to stop herself from fidgeting. “We’re very rich. We’ve hired out the red-eye just for ourselves. No one else will be on the plane but the Swiss pilots. Once we land in Geneva, someone from the head of state will meet us on the tarmac for a briefing and escort us to the cottage outside town.”

“And that’s it,” Bellamy sighed.

“And that’s it,” Clarke agreed, tugging a beanie down over her head. She noticed Bellamy wither slightly, checking his phone before shoving it back into his pocket.

She had an idea of what was on his mind.

“I’m sorry that you’re leaving Octavia without saying goodbye, Bellamy.”

Bellamy’s jaw tightened. “She knows where to reach me, Clarke. She’s known for months. She’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t care.”

Clarke stopped pacing and crossed the room to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “I have a feeling it won’t be forever. You’ll see each other again.”

“She said I’m dead to her, Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice rumbled in his chest against her. With a pang, Clarke thought of her mother, who hadn’t even bothered to express the same sentiment to Clarke face-to-face.

“I know how you feel.”

…

They held hands as they moved through airport security. Clarke had put on thick, black-rimmed glasses despite not needing them to see. She hoped that between the hat, the hair, and the eyewear that no one would recognize her.

Besides, America had only ever seen the prim, polished version of Clarke in public.

The version of Clarke that didn’t exist.

Bellamy couldn’t say anything to her. They couldn’t risk someone picking up on the fact that he wasn’t, in fact, mute.

It was nearly 10 PM by the time they’d gotten through security and seated themselves at an empty gate. Their plane was technically private hire. They didn’t get a gate just for themselves.

Clarke’s foot tapped nervously against the thin, olive-colored carpet as they waited.

She was anxious to get going.

She was so close to being able to breathe again.

The longer they waited, the more chance there was for something to go wrong.

“Monsieur and Madame Godard?” A man in pilot uniform approached them timidly, his cap in hand, his accent thick. “I am your co-pilot tonight. We are ready for you now. If you will just follow me, _s'il vous plaît_.”

Clarke flashed a nervous look at Bellamy. He nodded, giving her a small smile. They picked up their bags and followed the man down the terminal.

He led them down a breezeway and onto the tarmac. The light glowing from the passenger windows was warm, yellow and inviting against the dark night sky and the howling wind.

“One at a time, if you please,” the pilot called down behind them as he climbed the narrow stairs up to the door of the plane. “Ze stair is quite narrow and does not like zis wind.”

Clarke turned back to look at Bellamy.

“You first,” he whispered. There was no one left around to hear him. He nodded toward the stairs, giving her hand another squeeze.

Clarke couldn’t believe that they were here right now, together, almost free. She couldn’t bite back her smile as she leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“See you up there,” she whispered back.

Clarke carefully climbed the rickety stairs, cringing as they creaked in the wind. Pink strands of hair whipped across her face, and she coughed, spitting them out of her mouth.

“Stop!”

The shouts of mens’ voices echoed from somewhere below her. Only two or three steps from the top, Clarke gripped the railing and wheeled around to look behind her.

A team of security officers was swarming below her, flashlights in one hand and weapons in the other.

Clarke’s mind overloaded like a lightning-struck rod. For a second, she thought she might black out.

“_Run!_” she screamed at Bellamy down below her. _“Run up the stairs!_”

The pilot suddenly appeared at her shoulder, his face pale with alarm.

“Get inside, get inside,” he urged her, trying to pull her into the cabin. “We need to _go._”

Clarke’s sense of peace shattered, fracturing in the night. As she squinted into the darkness, she saw Bellamy surrounded, his wrists held in a vise behind his back by one of the officers.

“Go!” He yelled up at her, his voice raw. “I’ll find you!”

“Not without you!” Clarke screamed, the wind whipping tears off her face as soon as they spilled from her eyes. The pilot continued to pull her inside the plane.

“I’ll find you. I_ promise,_” he yelled back hoarsely, still struggling against the officers.

Panic rose beyond a fever pitch as one of the officers began to climb up the stairs.

Clarke felt herself roughly pushed aside as the pilot elbowed past her. He drew a taser from his pocket and took aim.

The officer tumbled backwards, falling onto the tarmac.

“We are shutting ze door, Miss Griffin.” Clarke’s head snapped around at the sound of her real last name. “We need to go. I am sorry,” he said in a softer voice.

“I promise,” Bellamy called up to her again, his voice nearly gone. More tears began to well in Clarke’s eyes. She could barely see his face now.

She struggled to catch her breath.

“_I love you_,” she shouted in a cracking voice just as the plane door slammed shut.

…

Clarke’s mind was both churning and empty throughout the overnight flight.

She’d escaped.

She’d left Bellamy behind.

The two feelings fought to cancel each other out, leaving her shell-shocked and hollow inside.

He promised he’d find her.

But Clarke had seen how many guards were surrounding him. The public at large had no idea who Bellamy was, but everyone in the White House did.

He’d been everywhere with her. Like a shadow.

A shadow with a face not easily forgotten.

It felt like a cruel joke to even let herself believe that he might get free and find her, thousands of miles away in a little cottage on a hill.

The loss of Bellamy soured the taste of freedom in her mouth, like sugar into ash.

…

Clarke was trapped in a mindless haze as she went through the motions of the journey from the airport to the Swiss department of foreign affairs.

She stumbled through introductions with council members, trying to smile when they praised her for her bravery and assured her of her safety here.

“But…” one man paused, extending his hands outward, “where is Monsieur Godard?”

“He was captured by a security squadron as we were boarding the plane,” Clarke said dully.

The man in the suit clucked his tongue. “Oh, no no no. Zat will not do.”

Something sparked in Clarke like a firestarter. “Will you help him?” She asked suddenly, encouraged by the man’s reply. She leaned forward, biting down on her bottom lip. “Please help him find his way here.”

The man folded his hands together on his glass-topped desk. “We will see what we can do. Of course, it will not be easy. He is considered a criminal now and trying to aid anozzer fugitive after America has discovered his plan…” the man cleared his throat. “It will be tricky. Zere is no guarantee. But I promise you, we will try.”

_I promise._

Sometimes even the best-intentioned promises were impossible to keep.

But Bellamy wasn’t a lost cause.

Clarke’s heart gave a dull thud, reminding her that it was still there.

Now she just had to wait...and to hope.

…

Clarke felt herself wildly indebted to the Swiss government as she began to settle in. They supplied her with a new phone, complete with all of the contacts she might need for security and for getting in touch with the people who’d be trying to find and assist Bellamy.

They’d given her a bank account under the pseudonym on her passport, and filled it with a monthly stipend to help her get by.

But the cottage...the cottage was like something out of a fairy tale.

It was a two-story, whitewashed home patterned with wooden beams, the gabled roof sloping to a shallow point. Every room had windows that opened and let in natural light, and the inside was finished simply but elegantly with pale wooden furniture. The kitchen was well-stocked, and the fireplace and stone chimney were bound to make the living room cozy once the cold weather returned in the fall. Clarke’s closet was stocked with clothing for every season in her size -- from floaty dresses to heavy cable-knit sweaters. The living room walls were lined with chock-full, built-in bookshelves.

Bellamy’s contact hadn’t been lying when he’d told them it was a lovely cottage on a hill. The grass outside sloped gently down toward a village, and the path was dotted with tiny, colorful wildflowers. At the top of the hill, by her cottage, Clarke could see all around her -- from the rocky, towering mountains behind, to the sparkling waters of _Lac Léman_ below.

It took her breath away.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been free to go outside, completely unattended, and just feel the sun on her face, heating her bones and flushing her skin.

In beautiful moments like these, as well as the dark ones late at night where she lay awake, too lonely to sleep, she mourned the loss of Bellamy.

She hoped to heaven and back that he’d heard the last thing she’d said to him that night on the tarmac.

She’d waited far too long to say it.

The first time she’d looked closely at the bookshelves in her living room and realized that most of the library was stocked with historical texts, she wept bitterly -- so hard that she’d lost her voice. The next day, the woman she’d befriended that ran the fruit stall at the village market asked her in a hybrid of English and French if she was feeling all right.

Clarke couldn’t answer.

Some days, she would walk down to the lake and sit by it, closing her eyes as she stretched out beneath the shade of a tree. She ran her memories of the two of them through her mind like reels of film.

Every hour, she checked her government-issued phone, praying for an answer.

Every afternoon, when the increasingly warm sun streamed in through the kitchen windows, she stood at them and watched, praying to see him walking toward her up the hill, fulfilling his promise.

The weeks turned into months.

…

“I’ll ask you again. Where did she go to seek asylum?”

Bellamy glared up tiredly at the interrogation officer.

They hadn’t gotten anything out of him the first two times, and he wasn’t planning to crack now.

He counted himself lucky enough in the circumstances already. Thankfully, between his capture and his imprisonment, he’d managed to throw his forged passport, airline ticket, and personal phone down the sewer drain in an airport bathroom he’d convinced them to let him stop in -- an “emergency.”

Bellamy had known how to be covert. How to cover his tracks.

They wouldn’t find out where Clarke went unless the Swiss government failed her, or Bellamy did.

He sure as hell wasn’t going to let it be him.

He assumed they’d scheduled his interrogations so far apart in an attempt to break him down. Bellamy wasn’t totally positive, but he was pretty sure he’d been in his tiny isolation cell for nearly four months now.

He couldn’t see outside enough to tell, but summer would almost be over by now if his guess was right.

He hoped that Clarke had gotten to enjoy it, outside in the grass and amongst the trees like he knew she’d been longing to.

“Don’t make me ask you again, boy.” Bellamy snapped back to reality, scowling against the harsh, fluorescent lighting that painted the cinderblock room an ugly yellow-green.

“Won’t make a difference no matter how many times you ask, sir.”

A hand reared back and snapped across his cheek faster than he’d expected. The officer’s heavy class ring cut into the skin below his eye, and he felt blood trickling down toward his chin.

The officer, breathing heavily, stared Bellamy down.

Bellamy stared right back.

“Well, you’ve missed your chance for the month to get out of here, _Agent_ Blake,” the man said derisively. “Guess we’ll just try again in another few weeks. Maybe longer.” The man smiled darkly as he signaled for guards to come escort Bellamy back to his cell.

Staring at the rough, gray cinderblock walls pressing narrowly around him in his cell, with no way to escape, with no hope of movement without surveillance, and with no idea of if or when he’d ever get out, Bellamy began to understand more than ever why Clarke had tried to do what she did.

At least he could rest easy knowing they hadn’t found her. They wouldn’t still be questioning him if they had.

At least she knew that he loved her.

Even if he might never find out if she felt the same.

Sometimes, in restless sleep on his painfully hard cot, he dreamed of her. He dreamed of her covered in paint after defacing her bedroom walls with murals. He dreamed of her laughing over a steaming cup of hot cocoa in a tiny pub, bundled up against the English winter. He dreamed of her holding his face in her hands as she leaned in to press her lips to his.

He dreamed of her appearing at his cell door and opening it, holding his hand as she dragged him away and out into the sunlight.

“Blake.” Bellamy snapped awake, groaning as he lifted his head from the cold wall that he’d dozed off against.

“Mealtime.”

A tray of stale bread, canned peas, and watery spaghetti was shoved through the slot in his cell door.

Bellamy let his eyes fall shut again. He’d eat it in a minute. Maybe.

In the distance, he heard the buzzer sound of the corridor gate being opened. Footsteps echoed off the stone walls, drawing closer and closer.

They fell silent when they reached his cell door.

Keys jangled as they turned in the lock.

“Agent Blake? If you’ll come with me, please.” A man in officers’ uniform beckoned, nodding his head toward the corridor.

Bellamy frowned. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said “please” to him in here.

Possibly never.

Surely this wasn’t a second interrogation in one day?

But what else could it be?

Bellamy swallowed thickly as he stepped past the officer. The man, one Bellamy had never seen before, quickly grasped his arm, clicking handcuffs to lock around Bellamy’s wrists.

“This way.” The officer prodded him in the back toward the end of the hallway.

Bellamy walked slowly, expecting at any moment to be directed back into the interrogation quarters.

He wasn’t.

Frowning, Bellamy turned to look back at the man. His expression impassive, the officer simply nodded forward.

On more than one occasion like this, Bellamy had considered trying to knock his way out of the place by brute force. He’d never gone through with it, though. The security level was too high for him to ever make it far.

And he couldn’t keep his promise to Clarke if he was dead.

The man guided him further than Bellamy had ever gone from his cell. Bellamy’s heart began to stutter erratically.

He knew a lot went on behind the scenes in the government that would horrify the public - Clarke had discovered that in the hardest way possible - but surely they wouldn’t stoop so low as to execute him without a trial?

They finally stopped in what seemed to be a holding room with a service window. The room was totally sterile, and the man gripped Bellamy’s arm relentlessly as he steered Bellamy to the window.

He flashed the lady at the counter behind the window a badge.

“This is inmate 86114. He’s being removed in temporary transfer to secret service interrogation offices at the request of the president.”

The lady at the counter scrutinized Bellamy from behind oversized tortoiseshell glasses connected by a thin chain behind her hair.

“Ah yes, the whistleblower accomplice. Just show me your official documentation for the order and I’ll send you right through.”

The officer didn’t let go of Bellamy as he slipped a form under the opening at the bottom of the window glass.

The woman scanned it briefly before sliding it back and nodding.

“Ernie, open exit door three for me, would you?”

Another buzzing alarm sounded, and the officer shoved the form in his pocket, wordlessly steering Bellamy out the automatically-opening door to their left.

Bellamy screwed his eyes shut against the setting sun. The orange-golden light was shockingly bright against his prison-cell-accustomed eyes. The humid, late-summer air warmed him immediately, and he felt beads of sweat dot his forehead.

Why were they taking him to the White House? What could they possibly want from him there that they couldn’t learn from a phone call to the prison officers here?

The officer pushed him into the backseat of a deeply-tinted sedan, slamming the door behind him. Bellamy noticed the driver immediately lock the doors once Bellamy was in his seat, then quickly unlock them again to allow the officer into the front seat.

They rode in silence toward the gate, where the officer showed his papers one more time before they were motioned through.

Bellamy stared hard out the window, inhaling his surroundings like a drowning man would oxygen.

He knew the federal facility he’d been held at was in southeastern DC -- so why had they bypassed the beltline circling downtown and headed west instead?

Bellamy cleared his throat.

“Sir...where are we going?”

The man turned around to glance at him. Now that Bellamy could finally see his face for longer than a second or two, the expression on it seemed much more...sympathetic?

“We are going to the airport, _monsieur_,” the man smiled, pronouncing the title in perfect French. “Welcome to Take Two.”

Bellamy’s heart catapulted into his throat. “Do you mean - you’re not taking me to - do you mean you’re helping me get out of here?”

“We certainly hope so,” the driver spoke up, his English accented, unlike his passenger next to him. “Victor here was chosen to rescue you because of his perfect English. It is wonderful, no?”

Bellamy felt all of a sudden like the blood in his veins had been replaced with hot air. His hands shook slightly.

“We’re honestly lucky all of those papers weren’t scrutinized more heavily,” Victor added. “Here,” he passed back a passport to Bellamy alongside another plane ticket. “You are going for the same cover, the same plan as before, only that you had to travel alone at the end of the trip instead of accompanying your wife, due to some confusion with a travel agency. We know your French is not very good, so you will still pretend to be mute.” Victor passed back a notepad. “You will use this notepad to communicate, if need be.”

Bellamy opened the forged passport. It looked exactly as it had before. _Ulysse Godard_.

“We are actually your pilots tonight,” the driver said cheerfully. “We will get you to Geneva and Madame Pénélope in no time.” He winked at Bellamy in the rearview mirror.

“How is she?” Bellamy asked in a strangled voice, leaning forward in his seat.

“Very well, from what we hear of the reports,” Victor replied as he reached back to unlock the handcuffs around Bellamy’s wrists.

“She asks about you all ze time, according to ze council members,” the driver nodded.

Bellamy bit his lip. His heart slammed in his chest as he tried to process what was happening. His fortunes had turned so quickly that he felt the primal urge to weep, not from sadness, but from the sheer rawness of relief washing over him in waves.

“What’s your name, sir?” Bellamy asked the driver, realizing he hadn’t caught it and trying to keep a sob from welling in his throat.

“Henri, monsieur,” the man smiled back at him.

Bellamy balled his hands into fists to try and stop them from shaking. “Thank you both, so much.”

…

“Is it safe to stop here?” Bellamy glanced around at the truck stop, grateful at least that only one other vehicle occupied the parking lot at the moment.

“We know for a fact zat zaire security cameras do not work,” Henri chuckled. He tossed a coat back to Bellamy. “Here. It is too warm for this but it will cover your uniform long enough for you to go to ze showers.”

Victor tugged a shopping bag from the floorboard and handed it back. “In there you’ll find a fresh change of clothes, some toiletries, and change for the showers. Go clean yourself up. You must feel a bit grimy, I’d imagine.”

Bellamy wasn’t complaining. The communal showers had been less than ideal, especially for over a quarter of a year.

The two men walked in with him, flanking him and keeping him from view of the cashier as Bellamy slipped down the hall toward the showers.

He looped the handle on the back of a stall door and inspected the contents of the bag.

Jeans, underwear, a touristy t-shirt, a Washington Nationals baseball cap. Some plain gray tennis shoes. Soap and shampoo. A razor for his face. Some deodorant, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a plain white towel.

It was all wildly thoughtful. Bellamy wasn’t sure how he’d ever repay his rescuers.

Bellamy’s hair dripped down over his nose and ears as he stood under the hot, strong spray of the shower. No one had given him a chance to cut it in prison, and it was getting a bit long.

Nothing he could do about it now.

He soaped up once, twice, relishing in the privacy and the hot water for the first time in months.

He dressed himself and double-checked for cameras at the sink as he shaved away the rough beard that had grown while he’d wasted away in his cell.

The tacky t-shirt and baseball cap disguised him from looking like himself, but at least he looked - and felt - human again.

Bellamy almost smiled as Victor passed him a bag of cheese puffs once they were back in the car.

Clarke had loved cheese puffs. She’d always laugh over her orange fingers every time she had them.

Bellamy closed his eyes against the bright, dying light of the sun pouring in through the windshield.

The next time he saw the sun, he’d see Clarke again.

…

Clarke sat at the lake-facing window of the cottage, perched on a stool as she daintily dipped her paintbrush into a dab of white.

She approached the canvas on the easel with a steady hand, dabbing lightly to mimic the sparkle of the lake water in the early afternoon sun.

She’d begun painting a month or two ago. It had been so long since she’d created anything new, but starting again had been like muscle memory. Her brush was drawn to the canvas like a magnet.

She also loved that it put her brain in neutral -- not so engaged in painting a scene that she was stressed out, but not so idle that her mind drifted to things that hurt like pressing on a bruise.

Clarke smiled faintly to herself.

This painting was finished.

She pushed the easel back to the corner and washed her brushes at the sink.

The afternoon was still young.

Clarke tugged her hair tie out, letting her hair fall to her shoulders. It had grown out a little, and the pink was now completely washed away.

She went to fetch her swimsuit and a towel. Fall was almost here, and the tourists had been appearing with less and less frequency. Her little cove of the lake was finally starting to return to its private, unsullied state.

Clarke’s eyes still scanned the hillside and the village below as she headed down to the shore.

Always looking.

Still hoping, despite the fact that her contacts in the government had stopped responding to her questions about Bellamy.

That hope grew smaller and smaller with each passing day.

She still wept over him at night.

The lake water bit unyieldingly at Clarke’s skin when she plunged through the surface.

It was even colder than usual.

…

Bellamy should have been exhausted when he arrived at the consulate. He was hungry, dirty, and he hadn’t slept in over 24 hours.

Instead, he felt electrified.

The consulate was gracious enough to feed him some smoked sausage and cheese as they briefed him, and directed him to a much nicer shower than he’d used at the truck stop yesterday along with some fresh clothes. The sweater and pants they’d left him were perfect -- it was almost fall here. The air was decidedly nicer than it had been in the blazing DC area heat.

“Where’s Clarke? Does she know I’m here?” had been the first question Bellamy had asked.

The councilmen had smiled to each other. “We’ve decided to let it be a surprise.”

The taxi driver had dropped him off in the village nearest Clarke’s cottage. There wasn’t a real road leading up the hill -- only a worn path flanked by soft, swaying grass.

Bellamy stepped in a slow circle, looking around him.

The lake shone gold in the late afternoon sun.

A market stall owner called out on the other side of the square, holding up deep purple plums in her hands and shouting something in French.

The trees surrounding the village swayed with the light breeze.

It was beautiful.

Bellamy couldn’t believe he was finally free. _Here._

His heart rate stuttered as he began to climb.

…

Clarke’s hair was almost dry from her steaming hot shower.

The lake had been colder than she expected, and she’d needed help warming up.

It would probably turn out to be her last swim of the year.

She padded over to the sink, wearing only underwear, an oversized sweatshirt, and some slouchy woolen socks.

As she stirred some milk into her cup of tea, she gazed out the kitchen window, watching the sinking sun start its descent over the lake.

She wondered where Bellamy was now.

Sometimes, she was afraid that he’d been set free and had just stayed. Decided she wasn’t worth it.

Not that she could ever blame him for making a decision like that.

She wished every night that he was safe. That at least he wasn’t being hurt.

She still wished to see him climbing toward her up that hill.

Clarke blew gently on her tea, waiting for it to cool a little.

When she looked up again, a figure was at the bottom of the path, slowly ascending upward.

Surely it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

Couldn’t.

And yet -- she’d know that silhouette anywhere.

Had she finally lost her mind, alone up here in this little dreamland cottage?

Was she so heartsick that her eyes had started showing her things that weren’t really there?

No.

This was real. This was real, somehow.

Clarke dropped her teacup into the sink, oblivious to the clatter it made.

She pressed her fists to her heart, as if her hands could keep it from beating out of her chest.

He was at the top of the hill now.

His eyes met hers through the open window. He fell still.

“You got any room for a weary traveler?” He called out, his voice cracking.

Clarke needed to scream. She needed to cry. She needed to lay down on the floor and shut her eyes and open them again to make sure that this wasn’t a hopeless mirage.

Instead, she ran to the front door and yanked it open.

He stood at the threshold, inches from her.

“You’re real,” Clarke’s voice ripped from her throat in a sobbing gasp. “You’re real.”

Her hands went to his face, her fingers running over his freckles and her thumbs tracing the deep circles under his eyes. “And now you’re here,” she cried, throwing herself into his arms.

He hoisted her up against him, wrapping his hands around her thighs as she hooked her legs around his hips.

He kicked the door shut behind him.

“I’m here,” he nodded. She could feel his heart pressed up against her own chest, beating wildly. Or was it hers?

“I’m here.” Shaking, Bellamy sat her down on the kitchen counter, her eyes level with his. His hair had grown, curling almost into his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Bellamy asked her in a low voice, his hands wrapping around her waist. He leaned his forehead against hers.

His question made her want to weep.

“Am I -- am _I_ okay?” Clarke spluttered. “I’ve been living here in this paradise all summer. And you, god knows where you’ve been -- where have you been? And what people have done to you, and-”

Bellamy’s mouth was on hers, kissing her breathless. Kissing her until there was nothing left in the world but his lips on her lips and his hands on her waist and the heat of his body rolling down her in waves as her joints weakened into water.

He finally broke free, breathing heavily. “I have all -- all the time in the world to tell you what happened, Clarke. Let’s not do it tonight.”

A tear trickled down her face as she nodded.

The question she’d been wanting to ask him for months boiled to the surface with a pang in her chest.

“Bellamy…” she paused, sweeping his hair away from his forehead and weaving her fingers through it. “Bellamy, did you hear the last thing I said to you that night when the plane door was closing?” Her other hand began to tremble where she rested it against his neck.

He shook his head. “I couldn’t hear anything over the wind from down there. Why?”

“I said…” Clarke broke off, her heart in her mouth. She dragged her eyes back to his, holding his warm gaze there. “I said that I love you. I still do.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

“I should have told you long before that.”

Bellamy held her gaze. Something in his eyes shifted -- settled. Moved into place. He seemed to relax into her hands.

The pace at which he leaned toward her was achingly slow.

When his lips finally met hers, they moved against them like honey, warm and smooth and devastatingly slow.

Everything else began to melt away as he picked her up again, holding her body up against his as he walked them through the open door of the bedroom.

The fading sunlight trickled gold and pink through the window.

A heat began to build between Clarke’s hips as he laid her gently on the bed, finally abandoning her mouth to smother the skin of her jaw and her neck and her shoulder in kisses.

God, she wanted him.

And she was going to have him.

She pulled the sweater over his head, relishing in finally having the chance to run her hands over the smooth, golden skin of his chest, soaking in an eyeful of the freckles that dotted his shoulders as well. Her heart lurched at the sight of the pale scar on his shoulder that was left by the bullet wound the morning he saved her life. One of many times he saved her life.

She raised her eyes back to his face, and the dark circles beneath his eyelashes struck her again.

“You must be really tired,” she said reluctantly, her hands falling to his hips. “Are you sure-”

“I’m sure,” he cut her off hoarsely, his hand tracing her hairline and tangling in her blonde waves. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said against her skin as he pressed another kiss to her neck.

A pulse of longing shot through Clarke’s abdomen, and her fingers curled around the waistband of Bellamy’s pants.

“Take my shirt off,” she said breathlessly, pulling him down against her.

Bellamy pushed up her hem slowly, higher and higher up her rib cage.

Clarke swallowed as she remembered the fading scars on her hips. She shrank inwardly a little as she thought of the size of her breasts and the way they didn’t always look so perky if she was lying down.

She relaxed a little as she watched Bellamy feast his eyes on what he saw once he tossed the sweatshirt to the floor.

His eyes returned to hers as he lowered himself over her again, kissing against the hollow of her throat, sucking lightly.

Kissing a few inches further down.

And a few inches further.

Clarke’s back arched involuntarily as his mouth closed around her breast, his tongue flicking lightly over her nipple.

She lifted a hand to the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair as her eyes rolled shut.

He dragged his mouth across her chest and let his tongue brush over the other nipple. Clarke felt it harden as his tongue, hot and wet, grazed over it again.

Clarke felt her breathing grow shallow as he began to kiss further downward, over her belly button and toward her hip bone.

She tensed suddenly as she realized how scarred the skin he was currently kissing was.

“You’re okay,” he whispered against her, his hands grasping her hips. “You’re beautiful.”

Clarke’s heart turned a flip in her chest.

Her breath caught as he ran the tips of his fingers down the inside of her thigh. He gently tugged her underwear down by the waistband, discarding it on the floor.

She was totally bare before him.

Before she had time to feel self-conscious, he pressed his hand gently to the inside of her knee and raised it slowly, pressing it back against the bed and holding it there. He laid a kiss on the soft skin there and slowly - agonizingly slowly - started to kiss a trail higher and higher up the inside of her thigh. He sucked on the soft skin at the highest point of her inner thigh, and Clarke twitched involuntarily.

She knew she was already soaking wet.

Her thighs began to shake of their own accord in anticipation.

Smiling up at her, Bellamy laid his other hand against her hip bone, pressing her against the bed.

Clarke grasped the bedcover - hard - as his tongue swept over the tiny bundle of nerves hidden between her legs.

“Bellamy,” she groaned, bucking her hip against his hand.

He hummed inquisitively against her, which only made her quiver more.

“Please,” she gasped out. “More.”

He swept over it again, flicking the tip of his tongue against it.

And again.

And again.

He held her down against the bed, his hands hot against her skin as his tongue traced its path slowly, over and over, in tantalizing circles and torturous sweeps.

Clarke screwed her eyes shut so hard she saw stars.

Her whole lower body was trembling now, and she had no control over it.

She began to pant as she felt herself nearing the edge. She gripped the sheets harder, bracing for it.

Suddenly, the space between her legs went cold.

“Bellamy,” she whimpered, her eyes snapping open. He _had_ to keep going. She was going to burst.

He was standing at the foot of the bed, his pants and underwear tossed behind him on the floor.

He was already hard.

And he was definitely bigger than Finn.

Clarke sat up, scooting down toward him at the edge of the bed.

“I...I just realized I don’t have a condom, Clarke, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay,” she said, placing her hands on either side of his hips. He hissed at the contact. “I have an IUD.” She inched closer. “And I trust you.”

And she did.

She felt Bellamy’s muscles ripple under her hands as she took him into her mouth. A low groan escaped his lips above her, and encouraged, she kept going, moving her head back and forth.

“No,” he said suddenly, his hands reaching down to gently push her back by the shoulders. “Come here,” he said in a low voice, grabbing her waist and slowly lowering her onto the bed. “Let me give you what you want.”

His hands trailed gently over her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples.

“Because it just happens that that’s what I want, too.”

He loomed over her, and Clarke’s eyes locked onto his as she felt his knees nudge in between hers. Her back arching slightly again, she widened the space between her legs, ready.

She _needed_ him.

She’d beg if she had to.

Her hands slid to his hips, pulling him down toward her.

Her breath caught as she felt the tip of him nudge up against her center.

“_Bellamy_,” she moaned, her hands pressing against his hips, willing him to keep going.

His head fell to kiss her neck as he slowly pushed himself in. Further, further, filling her until Clarke’s eyes rolled into the back of her head.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, feeling her muscles contract and expand, adjusting to him.

She heard him suck in a shaky breath as she clenched around him.

Still sucking gently on the soft skin beneath her ear, he began to move slowly inside her, in and out, in and out.

She huffed in frustration, bucking against him when he teased her, never picking up the pace.

She felt a muffled laugh against her skin, and he resurfaced, kissing her with no room left to breathe as he began to thrust faster.

Clarke’s legs began to shake uncontrollably again. She wrapped them around Bellamy’s back, pushing him deeper. He groaned against her lips.

Something inside Clarke began to rise rapidly, higher and higher toward a fever pitch.

“Bellamy I’m -- I’m going to-”

He sucked against the hollow of her throat again and at the same time lowered a hand to brush his thumb over her swollen clit.

The touch sent her over the edge, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, crying out as the climax rocked through her body in waves. The clenching that it sent through her tightened around Bellamy, and a low growl rumbled in his throat as he continued to thrust. Finally coming down, Clarke caught her breath. She put her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her.

“I love you,” she said in a rough whisper, and leaned up to suck the skin at the base of his neck.

Bellamy thrusted wildly for a moment before tensing up, the veins standing out in his neck as he stopped breathing.

He relaxed against her with a deep sigh, taking care to keep his weight off her and on his forearms instead.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, disentangling himself from her and rolling onto his back.

“I know,” she replied, slowly shaking her head.

After a silent moment of them just breathing, she felt Bellamy’s hand wrap around hers. He lifted it to his mouth, kissing her palm. Kissing the tip of every finger.

“I love you,” he said in a low voice, gravel at the edge of his tone. Clarke turned her neck to look at him, and found him already staring.

His warm, deep eyes, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to laugh.

She wanted to kiss him again.

So she did.

“What do we do now?” she asked him, smiling as he nuzzled the tip of his nose against hers.

He grinned back at her, his impossibly sweet mouth turned upward with joy.

“Whatever the hell we want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, folks! Thanks so much to those of you who've stuck around, and I hope you enjoyed the end of this story. Let me know how you feel in the comments! 
> 
> So long and farewell xoxo


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